The Phoenix and the Dragon
by M H E Priest
Summary: Gunther's hit men are determined to fulfill their contract.  Missing scenes and an extended tag to "Sweet Revenge."
1. Chapter 1

**The Phoenix and the Dragon**

**Prologue**

The California desert heat was stifling, and there was still a couple of hours of sunlight left to endure. The two men, both average-looking and in their mid-thirties, didn't speak as they drove on. The driver had to pay close attention to the task at hand; reality was distorted due to the heat shimmering off the pavement.

The passenger spotted the small, crooked sign by the side of the road. He cleared his dry throat. "Two miles, left."

The driver grunted his acknowledgement. Minutes later, he turned left onto a narrow gravel road. The old Chevy groaned and coughed up an incline. As it crested the hill, the two men spied the very small town of six buildings off to their right. They had almost reached their destination, their hideout. The city they had left in great haste this morning was too "hot" for them right now. Now they had to cool it in the desert.

The driver parked the car beside one of the buildings so that it could not be spotted easily from the hilltop or the rest of the town. Both doors opened simultaneously. The driver walked around to the back of the vehicle and opened the trunk. The passenger joined him seconds later. They grabbed the two large duffel bags but left the automatic weapons behind. One of them would come out later in the dark after the town's residents – all four of them – had retired for the evening. He would retrieve the guns then, and clean them properly, for they were the tools of their trade and they had plied their trade just hours ago.

The passenger glanced at his watch as he entered the cabin ahead of his partner. The television with an elaborate antenna was there as promised. He dropped the bag on the floor, strode purposefully to the set, and turned it on. "News." He eased himself into a nearby straight-back chair and leaned forward. His partner remained standing, clutching his bag's handle until his hand was white. Neither man seemed to breathe.

The reporter, a pretty blonde woman with brown eyes and red lips, took a deep breath and began the second story of the early evening news. "This morning," she intoned professionally, "at the Metropolitan Division of the police department, Detective Sergeant First-Class David Starsky was wounded in an apparent assassination attempt in the police station's garage as he and his partner were getting into their car for the day's patrol." The screen changed to a shot of a red and white Gran Torino riddled with bullet holes. As she continued to narrate, the shot pulled away and viewers were treated to a look at a massive red stain on the concrete. "His partner, Detective Sergeant First-Class Kenneth Hutchinson, escaped injury. Sergeant Starsky, a highly decorated police officer and a Vietnam War veteran, is in very critical condition at an undisclosed local hospital. We will have more on this tragic story as it becomes available. In other local news…"

They stopped listening. After a few seconds, the driver flung his duffel hard at the back wall of the cabin. "Shit! How did we _miss _one of those damned cops completely? Why didn't the other one die on the scene? You know what this means – if our current employer even allows us to survive, this could be our last job. Nobody will hire two boobs who couldn't pull this job off. Dammit, the set-up was _perfect_! They were so close, with nowhere to go but hell! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?" His body shook in rage and fury.

His partner sighed. "The contingency plan is in effect. Our subcontractor will take care of things. If by some fluke he doesn't pull it off, we try again later. When their guard is down. We have to. They might be able to identify us. We lay low for now. If necessary, we'll contact our mole at Metro in a few weeks."

The driver calmed down considerably. His partner was right. Neither one of them was going to allow two punk cops to sully their reputations as world-class assassins-for-hire.

~s&h~

The large black woman with a perpetual smile on her face stirred the pot of stew one last time. She inhaled its seductive aroma and her mouth watered. "Good batch," she prided herself out loud. "Junior," she said loudly, "time to eat! You know it's church night tonight!" She grinned; she was the only person he let call him "Junior" anymore. Even David, his surrogate father, had to call him "Jackson."

She ladled some stew into a white bowl, placed it on the kitchen table. Junior still wasn't there, so she called for him again. He was just in the living room, watching the news on TV; he must have heard her.

She got the feeling that something wasn't right. Something wasn't right with Junior not answering her. But something else wasn't right, either. She shivered for no apparent reason, then whispered a quick prayer. She went to the living room in search of her grandson.

There he was, as expected, sitting on the old ottoman, in the glow of the TV. His head was bent forward, and his shoulders moved up and down. "Junior?" she said tentatively.

He slowly turned his head toward her. His young face was streaked with tears.

"Oh, honey, what is it?" The woman's eyes began to fill with tears out of empathy.

"Gran'ma, they shot him up really bad," he said in a voice quivering with agony.

Mrs. Walters' heart leapt to her throat. Only one human being in the world could make Jackson react so strongly – David. "Oh, my baby!" Her knees turned to mush. She barely made it to the sofa. Her tears flowed freely now, and she held her arms out to her grandson.

He hesitated. But then he realized his grandmother needed him. He had left her alone to grieve when his father, her son, had been shot and killed. He ran over to her and sat as close to her as he could. They embraced each other and rocked as they wept and prayed.

David Starsky had taught him much over the last year or so.

**Part 1**

1.1

San Francisco was dressed in a perfect spring day costume but Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson hadn't noticed. Every nerve in his body was on alert for danger as he escorted his newly-handcuffed prisoner to the waiting SFPD patrol car. If they could get to his partner in their own police garage, they could certainly get to him here. He wouldn't put anything past James Marshall Gunther, the man who had turned down the opportunity to run for the highest office in the United States because it would be a loss in power and influence.

_I'll show him loss_, Hutchinson thought in the back of his mind as he continuously monitored his surroundings. He roughly pushed the old man before him, down the slope of the massive front yard. The suspect barely maintained his footing. He hung his head and fought back the tears that clouded his vision.

Both policemen watched the visiting detective and his prisoner closely as they came down the hill toward them. Peters, the senior of the two, whistled quietly through his teeth and said flatly, "How the mighty hath fallen."

Jablonski, just ending his first year as a cop, remained silent. He imagined he could see sparks and even flames emanating from the blond detective. _Christ, he sure is…intense_.

When Gunther was just a few feet from the car, Hutchinson let go and shoved him. The old man slammed into the car with considerable force. He grunted loudly in surprise and pain, and, crying in fear, he fell to the ground in a twisted fetal position. Hutchinson took a short, sharp breath in as he realized the suspect's position almost perfectly mimicked his partner's after the shooting.

"Get up, you piece of shit," Hutchinson growled. "You're getting better than you deserve." The detective grabbed Gunther by his white hair and began pulling him to his feet. All three cops could smell the fear on this man.

Jablonski stepped forward and said, "Hey, you can't do…" But his partner's hand on his arm and a blue, threatening, fire-spitting glare from the detective made the rookie stop. "Don't fuck with me," Hutchinson muttered through clenched teeth. The rookie backed away. He began trembling slightly.

Peters, a beat cop for twenty years, whispered in his latest partner's ear, "Don't get in the way. Remember what this asshole perp tried to do to this cop and his partner."

"But it's not right, the way he's handling the suspect!" Jablonski said in hushed excitement.

Peters sighed. "It ain't right if he didn't try to kill your partner. Or you."

Gunther was on his feet. Hutchinson had released his hold on the man's hair and now had him by the clothes at his throat. "If you're through chit-chatting, will someone open the goddamned door!"

Jablonski paled, but quickly responded to the authority in Hutchinson's voice. The detective practically threw the most powerful (arguably) man in the country into the back seat of the cruiser. He slammed the door and faced the two SF police officers.

"I didn't see the butler on my way out. He should be rounded up. And call the coroner's wagon – seems that Gunther actually succeeded in killing someone."

Jablonski couldn't or wouldn't move. He was mesmerized at the emotions flying around the BCPD detective's face – anger, acceptance, triumph, sadness, guilt, joy - and the fire that smoldered so close to the surface of his ice-blue eyes encircled by dark rings of worry and fatigue. He faintly heard Peters say, "I got it."

In less than a minute, the three patrol cars that had parked just outside the Gunther estate (Hutchinson had wanted to go in completely alone to serve the warrant on the man, but was not allowed to operate without this compromise) roared up the long driveway toward the majestic mansion. As he watched the cars approach, he said with quiet intensity, "Let's get the hell out of here." He ran both hands through his longish blonde hair and sighed deeply. The adrenalin was wearing off. And he needed to get back to his partner.

1.2

Hutchinson had done his best to keep from strangling Gunther with the chain of the handcuffs that attached the two men together for the flight back to Bay City. The nausea he felt from being so close to this creature fortunately hadn't manifested itself in vomiting.

The plane ride was uneventful. Gunther had not uttered a sound. Hutchinson had spoken only to the first-class stewardess when necessary. She had looked very familiar to him, and a couple of times it had seemed that she wanted to speak with him on a more personal level. Hutch was glad she hadn't; he was in no mood for anything but business.

The district attorney handling the case had assumed that someone in San Francisco would either see Gunther in chains at the airport and notify the press, or someone in SFPD would leak the news. Captain Dobey, the detective's immediate supervisor, had assumed the same and had arranged for Hutchinson and his prisoner to depart the plane at a hangar away from the terminal, to avoid the anticipated press. And as expected, the BC airport was crawling with print and television reporters.

Once in the hangar, the detective and the old man slowly descended the stairs provided for them. Three squad cars waited for them. Hutch personally knew all six uniformed officers. At Hutchinson's request, he and Gunther traveled to Metro in separate cars. The blond detective sat wordlessly in the back seat of the car following the one Gunther rode in, and stared unseeing at the city speeding by him. His mind was blank, and his heart was unexpectedly heavy. He cleared his throat a number of times to control the tears that sat right at the edge of his soul.

The streets around Metro were crowded with more media people and various and sundry curiosity seekers. It took the cars more time to drive the last two blocks than it had the last three miles to the station. The cars pulled into parking area at the rear of the building. It was crowded there, too, with cops from Metro and several other precincts and divisions. When Hutch stepped out, his feet hit blood-stained concrete. _Oh, dear God, Starsky's still here!_ Gunther, too, stepped onto the stained pavement, because Starsky's blood had covered a huge area. Once he realized what it was, he looked up to find Hutchinson aiming an incendiary stare at him. Gunther shivered and almost wet himself.

Captain Harold Dobey was waiting for them. The large black man clapped Hutch on the arm a couple of times and said, "Good job, Hutchinson. Now get him in the station and book the turkey."

Hutch nodded. He rubbed his eyes a few times with his right fingers. "My pleasure, Captain." In a few steps he was within smelling distance of Gunther. The two cops escorting him released their hold on his arms and stepped away. Hutch grabbed the man by his shirt and tie once more and pulled him into the station.

No one knew who started it, but before the two men were in the building, every cop was applauding.

1.3

_At least I got a chance to see the cherry blossoms_, Detective Joan Meredith thought as she collapsed on the sofa in her hotel suite. The Washington, D.C., police department had put her up in luxury for her last few days in town. She had been "on loan" from BCPD for a deep undercover assignment for months in the nation's capital. She left only five days after finishing her brief and successful partnership with David Starsky. She knew he had tried several times to get in touch with her through some friends, but her tracks were covered. Earlier this morning, all the arrests in the drug-and-teen prostitution ring had been made and she came in from the cold. All she had left was a day or two of paperwork, and she could go home until the depositions and trials, should it even come to that.

She kicked off her shoes. She swung her feet around and reclined on the plush couch. Closing her eyes, she began fantasizing about the exuberant, curly-haired detective, and how they would resume their personal relationship. She smiled all the way to her toes, reliving their intimate moments together. They had a lot of catching up to do. _I'll call him tonight. Maybe he wants to see me as much…_

The harsh ringing of the blue princess telephone interrupted her thoughts. "Hello?"

"Meredith, it's MacQueen." Mac had been her contact in the department during the operation. "Uh, something big has just happened that I think you, uh, might be interested in. It'll be on all three national news broadcasts at 6:30. I, uh, want to watch it with you. I'll be right over." He hung up before she could say anything else.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Though she had no clue what the news might be, she couldn't help but think it would be bad. Mac had not sounded or spoken like himself.

The petite, beautiful policewoman with the café-au-lait skin and short-cropped black hair went into a flurry of activity. She called room service and ordered a shrimp salad for herself, grilled salmon for Mac, and iced tea for both. She dashed into the shower. She had just finished dressing in a multi-colored tunic and black tights when there was a knock on her door.

She spied Mac through the security hole. He looked like a whipped puppy dog, not the strong, confident, blustery Scotsman she had come to trust and depend on as her steadying force in the operation. She let him in.

"Okay, Mac, what's up? Did something go sour with one of the busts today?"

Mac, avoiding eye contact, motioned for Meredith to sit. She looked at him with suspicion and started to become worried. She sat down stiffly on one end of the sofa. Mac reluctantly sat on the other end.

"What is it, Mac? You have to tell me, no matter how bad it is."

"Oh, Christ, lass," he said, voice filled with tension. "I've been dreadin' this moment, but hoped I could wait just a few days more. But I cannot."

Meredith knew the news would be horrible. Mac's Scottish accent was usually undetectable, unless he was stressed, and right now he was stressed. "Mac?"

"About a month ago, your Cap'n Dobey called. He wanted to me give you some news about…about a friend of yours. A fellow officer." He paused, then took her hand in his. "An officer you had become quite close to in a short period of time."

The policewoman could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She knew he was talking about Starsky. _Oh, please say he's not dead, that he's okay!_

Mac sighed. "Well, lassie, I couldn' tell you then, for fear your head wouldn't work right. Now, I can tell you, and no other way but straight out. David Starsky was mortally wounded. 'Twas quite bad. There was a contract on him and his partner." Mac saw that Meredith's expression hadn't changed but he could feel a minute tremble in her hand. "But he's alive, hangin' on. Don't know more, except his partner broke the case and arrested the scoundrel yesterday. It'll be on all the news tonight. The man who ordered your friend and his partner's deaths is quite well known, he is."

A knock on the door interrupted Mac. He breathed a sigh of relief to himself, patted her hand, and answered the door. He waved the waiter into the room.

"Where would you like me to set up your meal, sir?" asked the eager, young Hispanic man.

"Jus' leave it here, tha's a good laddie. Here, I'll sign for it." He fished a five-dollar bill out of one of his pants pockets. "Thank you, young man."

"No, thank _you_, sir. Enjoy your meal and have a pleasant evening." He smiled and bowed at the waist as he gladly backed out of the room. The tension in the room had disturbed him.

Mac drummed his fingers a few times on the cover of one of the entrees. "It twould be my guess you don't want to eat just now, hey?" Meredith, who hadn't moved since Mac left her side, slowly shook her head a few times. "I thought so. Well, lassie, why don't we watch the news?"

The big man turned on the television before rejoining Meredith. He gingerly took her hand again as they sat silently watching some commercials. Mac stole quick glances to reassure himself that she was still breathing. But he could see her large brown eyes continued to lack expression.

They listened and watched as Walter Cronkite told the story of the arrest and arraignment of James Marshall Gunther. On the screen flashed a formal still photograph of the influential man, followed by a video of him in chains being led out of court. Cronkite recited the most serious of the numerous charges against him, and a file photo of a handsome, blond, blue-eyed man arrived on the screen. His image finally jarred Meredith back to life on the inside. _Hutch! Without his mustache!_ she thought.

The avuncular reporter talked about how Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson of the Bay City PD broke the case. And how he and his partner Sergeant David Starsky had become targets because of their relentless pursuit of corruption and murder among the local FBI, district attorneys, and judges. And how Starsky – now a file photo of the dark-haired, violet-eyed detective was on screen – had been gunned down in the police parking lot but had miraculously survived…

Meredith turned away from the set and stared straight into Mac's green eyes. "I'm leaving on the next available flight, Mac," she said softly and evenly. "I'll do the paperwork during the flight, after it, whatever, but I will not do it here. I'll come back as I need for depositions and trials. But I have to go home." _Funny,_ she thought, _when I think of home, I see Starsky's face._

Mac nodded with understanding. "Aye, I thought you'd say that, lass. I got ya a late flight outta Dulles. It leaves at 11:30. You can pick up your ticket at the airport."

The woman withdrew her hand from his. She leaned toward him, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and hugged him briefly. "Thank you for everything, Mac. For the plane ticket, and for being there for me when things got…rough on the job."

"No, thank _you_, Meredith. You did an outstanding job. We couldn'a done it without you. Now, go home and take care of your friend." He kissed her on the forehead. "Well, I'm hungry. Care to join me, lassie?"

She had decided to hold her tears until she was alone, so she smiled and nodded. As he ate and she moved her food around the plate, they discussed the logistics of how to handle her part in the arraignment and trial aspects of the successful operation.

1.4

Hutchinson would not leave James Marshall Gunther until he had been arraigned on multiple counts, including two counts of conspiracy to commit murder and two counts of attempted murder of law enforcement officers. Being so close to Gunther for that long, Hutch felt truly and deeply contaminated. He wondered it this was akin to what rape victims felt. He showered and scrubbed for a half-hour. He wanted to be sure Starsky couldn't smell that son of a bitch on him.

By the time he finally got back to the hospital to be with his partner, it had been more than 24 hours since they had been together, their longest separation since the shooting. He ran from his car in the hospital parking garage and took the stairs because the elevator was too slow. He burst onto the floor where Starsky's room was. He finally skidded to a breathless stop at the nurses' station. "How is he? Can I go in? Thanks." He didn't wait for an answer from the frustrated ward clerk.

Hutch stopped to catch his breath at the big window looking into Starsky's room in the step-down unit of the floor. He was grateful that his friend no longer needed intensive care, and hoped it wouldn't be too much longer before he could be moved to a regular bed on the ward. Right now, the dark-haired man's eyes were closed and he was curled up on his right side, one pillow behind his back and another between his knees. Hutch thought he recognized Maxine, an older nurse with a head of incredible silvery-white hair, who worked only with patients in the step-down unit. He and Starsky would both miss her when the latter no longer required special care. She was a very special woman.

The big blond quietly walked in. The nurse was Maxine, who smiled a warm welcome at Hutch. Before he could speak, she said quietly, "Go ahead, Kenny," (she was one of the few people in the world who could call him that, and he loved it coming from her) "wake him up. He wants and needs to see you. I'll step out for a few minutes and then we'll talk."

Hutch smiled widely and gave her a big hug. "Thanks, Maxie. You're the greatest. Oh, if I were only a few years older…"

She laughed her easy laugh. "Age doesn't mean a thing, Kenny. And if age did matter, well, even the _two_ of you couldn't handle me." She patted him gently on his arm before she left.

"She…right." A small, raspy voice came from the bed. A pair of bright violet-blue eyes gazed up at him.

"Starsk! You said words! When did this start?" Hutch was ecstatic. Up until then, Starsky had merely grunted and croaked out incomprehensible sounds. As a bonus, the wounded man appeared stronger and definitely had better color.

"Don' know. Glad you…firs'…hear." Starsky cleared his dry, scratchy, sore throat gently. "Hurts talk. Ice?"

"Of course," mumbled Hutch as he stumbled to the bedside table for the ice bucket and spoon. Starsky laughed at his friend's stumbling, but the pain in his chest and abdomen grew with that normally healing activity. Hutch overturned the ice bucket when he heard Starsky groan. This made Starsky laugh even more, so he laughed and groaned for about a minute. But by that time, Starsky's laugh, always infectious, caused Hutch to start laughing.

When Maxine returned five minutes later, she was greeted with the sight of Starsky holding his chest and abdomen tightly, alternately laughing and groaning, and Hutchinson holding his stomach, pounding his knee with his hand, laughing as well.

"This joke I gotta hear, fellas. You doing okay, Davey?" she asked as she gently stroked his curly hair. They both quieted down.

"Yeah. Better." He was a little surprised that he was feeling better. _Guess it's 'cause Hutch is back_, he thought.

Hutch noticed that Maxine didn't seem surprised that Starsky was finally saying words. Something must have happened since he was here yesterday.

"Uh, buddy, I'll get you some clean ice." When he bent down to stroke Starsky's hair himself, he saw that part of the dressing was saturated with blood. He tried not to show his alarm. "Be right back, partner." As he straightened to leave, he caught Maxine's eyes. She nodded. "I need to talk with Kenny, sweetpea. He needs to know."

Hutch didn't see Starsky sadly nod his head in agreement.

Once outside the room, out of Starsky's hearing and line of sight, Hutch's anxiety skyrocketed and he crowded Maxine. "What is it, Maxie? What's wrong?"

"We've been expecting David to start having nightmares, Ken. He had one last night. Shelley was with him. He thrashed around in bed so much that he tore open a few stitches. It took Shelley and two orderlies to keep him from hurting himself further."

"What?" Hutch asked disbelievingly. "How could someone in his weakened condition need to be _held down_? To tear open stitched wounds?"

"Ken," she replied patiently, "I can't readily explain it. I think it might be related to the superhuman strength some people exhibit in life-threatening emergencies. But I don't know for sure why or how. The important thing is, he had a bad nightmare and he was alone."

"But I thought you said Shelley…"

"Yes, she was with him," Maxine interrupted. "But he was alone. He's alone, Ken, when you're not with him, no matter how many other people are in the same room with him. I think that's why this nightmare was so…violent."

Hutch's shoulders drooped and his expression changed from worry to guilt. "This happened because I chose to stay with that scum that put him here. How could I have _done_ that?"

Maxine took Hutch in her arms and said nothing as he allowed himself a few sobs. Finally, he asked, "Was it the shooting?"

"Well, it wasn't _that_ shooting. Best as Shelley could tell, it seemed to be about Vietnam. Did he serve a tour there?" She felt Hutch nod on her shoulder.

"Yeah, eighteen months. I think he was wounded. But he never talks about it. What did he say?"

"Just a few words, like 'VC' and 'sniper. And it seemed to Shelley that he was dreaming about you being shot as well."

He pulled away, but Maxine continued to hold his hands. "I got shot a few months ago." The image of that teenaged girl pointing a gun at him flashed before his eyes and he gasped.

"Ken, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You didn't desert him, or cause the nightmares. Now that they've started, he will have more, even when you are there. But they probably won't be as bad when you are with him. And with time and help, all the nightmares will get fewer and less disturbing."

Hutch smiled wanly at the nurse. "Will you marry me, Maxie?"

She laughed cheerily, squeezed his hands, then stroked his cheek. "Get Davey some ice. Enjoy your visit." She went back into Starsky's room.

Her patient was awake and watching her. "He know?" he said hoarsely.

"Yes, sweetheart, he does know." Maxine sat in the chair next to his bed and took his hand in hers. "I hope I didn't make him feel worse, telling him you are alone without him. But it's true. I think he knows it, anyway."

"Almos' not alone…you." He tried to give her a full smile.

"Davey honey, no wonder so many people love you so much!" She laughed with delight when he finally achieved full, asymmetrical smile.

"I…lucky."

"Aren't we all!" She kissed him soundly on his forehead.

"Aren't we all what?" Hutch asked as he returned with a bucket of fresh ice chips.

"Lucky!" Starsky and Maxine said in unison.

"We certainly are, Gordo, especially me. I got you as my best friend and partner," Hutch said to Starsky. "And I got you in my fantasy life," he directed to Maxine, with a wink.

Maxine's laugh lit up the room. She left again, after cleaning up the mess Hutch had made, to give them more time alone. She trusted Hutch to come flying for her if anything, no matter how insignificant, changed in this partner's condition.

Hutch jumped right in as he shoveled a spoonful of ice into Starsky's parched mouth. "So, buddy, Maxie told me about the nightmare and the stitches. And she said you're alone without me. Well, she's a perceptive woman, but she's only half right. _I'm_ alone without _you_, too, Starsk." He smiled affectionately at the heavily bandaged man. "And I think you're nuts if you think you're lucky. Just look at you!"

That got Starsky laughing again. Once he quieted down, Hutch continued. "So, you dreamed about 'Nam."

Starsky nodded and averted his eyes. He hoped staring at the mostly blank wall would rid him of the horrific memories that came tumbling back with the mention of the nightmare's subject. And of the image of Hutch slumped and bleeding in the hallway of that home being burgled. It didn't work.

"It's been a while since you dreamed about that, right?"

Starsky took it that he meant Vietnam, nodded again, and said, "Marcos."

Hutch sighed sadly and shook his head. He gave his friend another spoonful of ice. "That crazy son of a bitch. At least we never have to go to a parole hearing to convince the prison board to keep him locked away."

The bedridden detective spied the cut on his partner's left wrist. "Whuz dat?" he questioned, looking with alarm at the wound.

"Oh, that?" Hutch tried to sound nonchalant as he pulled his shirt cuff over the wound, wincing in the process. "Cut myself shaving."

Starsky flashed him his don't-tell-me-no-lies look. Hutch silently cursed the man for being so observant and nearly impossible to lie to.

"They tried to get me, too, in the garage here, soon after your…" He let the rest of the sentence drop.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah, partner?"

"Slee' wi'…me…'night?" Starsky's eyes began to fill with tears and fear.

"Of course, buddy, I'll be right here in my chair."

"No!" Starsky was close to panic.

"What? Do you want me to sleep here or not? I don't understand, buddy."

_When will this hurtin' to talk stop! _ _When will I be able to make the words right?_ "Slee' here." The curly-haired man patted his bed. His midnight eyes pleaded with his partner.

"Uh, Starsk, there's barely enough room for _you_, much less me, too. I don't think they'll let me do it, anyway." But Starsky's eyes increased their plea. Hutch quickly melted. _Starsky needs me to do this_. _Hell, _I _need this._ "Okay, okay, but no funny business, you understand?"

Starsky relaxed and he felt the fear fade away. He gave Hutch a mischievous grin and said, "No prom'ses." He chuckled when the blond man blushed. "So tell…guh…guh." He stopped and shuddered. He couldn't bring himself to say "Gunther," not yet. "Arrest?"

Hutch had sensed the shudder and knew exactly what provoked it. "Oh, yeah, Starsk, it was great. I wish you could have been with me, but I couldn't wait a couple of weeks. Dobey booked me first-class, both ways…"

Starsky heard no more as he rapidly fell into a peaceful sleep, reassured that his partner would be here with him, where they could keep each other safe.

1.5

Joan Meredith was exhausted. Between the two-hour layover in Chicago and the unexpected landing in Denver for mechanical problems, it was 9 a.m. local time before she finally arrived at Bay City's airport. She dashed for the nearest public telephone. It took her a few seconds to remember Metro's number. Once dialed, it seemed that the connection took forever.

"Bay City Metropolitan Division. How may I help you?" The nasal female voice irritated Meredith.

"Captain Dobey, please, and right away."

"If this is an emergency, I can direct you to…"

"NO, it's not an emergency," she interrupted. "Listen, this is Detective Joan Meredith. I must speak with him or Detective…uh…Ken Hutchinson."

"Detective Meredith! Yes, we've been expecting your call. Lieutenant MacQueen called this morning to see if you had reported in yet. Both Captain Dobey and Detective Hutchinson are at the hospital. Wait a sec while I transfer you…it's a bit complicated…"

Meredith was treated to a few seconds of silence, followed by ringing. On the seventh ring, a gruff voice intoned, "Dobey."

"Captain, it's Meredith."

"Guess MacQueen finally told you about Starsky, huh? Or did you catch the news last night?"

"Captain," she said, barely controlling the urgency she felt, "I'm at BC airport. How is he?"

"Getting better every day, Detective. Everybody says it's a miracle he's even alive. But he has a _very_ long way to go." _How can I possibly prepare this young woman for what's she about to see and hear?_ he thought.

"May I see him?"

"Of course. Seeing you would probably boost his morale. He's at Memorial…"

"Thanks, Captain. I'll be right there."

Two hours later, having been delayed once again, this time due to a jack-knifed truck, Meredith walked briskly into the busy Memorial Hospital lobby. When she asked for David Starsky's room number, the receptionist signaled discretely to someone behind Meredith, then picked up the phone and dialed. "Someone is asking about David Starsky."

"Excuse me, miss." Meredith jumped when she heard the deep voice coming from behind her. She turned to see a policeman in uniform, his right hand on his weapon. "May I see some identification, please?"

"Of course, Officer." Meredith rummaged around in her bulging briefcase that also doubled as her purse. She hadn't needed her BCPD badge for so long, that it had gotten buried under the piles of paperwork she brought with her to do on the plane. Her fingers finally found the soft leather. As she pulled it out, she saw a second uniformed cop off to her right, his gun already unholstered but pointed to the ground. _What has happened here to call for such security?_ she wondered. _It must not be over, even with Gunther's arrest._

The first policeman carefully studied the proffered ID. "Sorry, Sergeant, we can't be too careful, you know."

"Meredith! About time you got here," bellowed Dobey as he approached the group in front of the reception desk. "I told Starsky over an hour ago that you were on your way. Now you've got him worried sick. Been asking me to put out ABPs on you." He looked at the men in blue. "You two, back to work. Good job, too. Don't let your guard down."

He turned back to the small woman in front of him. She looked tired, worried, hungry, and puzzled. "I've been running the division pretty much from here since the shooting. Let's go to my office and I'll fill you in." When she started to protest, he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Starsky has waited this long, he can wait a few more minutes. Maybe it'll teach him some patience."

_Some things never change_, she thought. Knowing that did bring her a measure of reassurance.

Twenty minutes after her arrival at the hospital, Dobey escorted Meredith to Starsky's room. She had been horrified at what Dobey had told her about the whole ordeal, but had insisted on seeing Starsky as soon as Dobey was through. She was as prepared as she would ever be.

As Dobey held the door open for her, she heard a man within say, "…minor damage. No doubt the insertion of the breathing tube at the scene was traumatic. And just keeping it in for a while can cause damage. It's rarely permanent. From what I can tell, I believe he'll have a complete recovery from this particular injury. However, I do suspect he will be hoarse for a few months. I'll check on him periodically. Mr. Hutchinson." The man, dressed in a white lab coat, shook hands with Hutch. The two men blocked her view of the bed.

"Thanks, Dr. Becker."

"Beth, I'll be back in my office. See you there." As the physician left the room, he smiled at Meredith and Dobey. Right behind him was a nurse carrying a large tray covered with opened towels.

Meredith turned her attention back into the room. She ignored the large blond man with outstretched hands coming toward her. She tiptoed to the bed and watched the nurse check Starsky's blood pressure. Hutch looked at Dobey for some sort of explanation of Meredith's rude behavior. _Maybe she blames me for this. I didn't cover my partner the way I should have_, he thought. The black man simply shrugged. Hutch fought back the guilt feelings.

It was obvious Starsky was asleep. She longed to see those eyes of his that always seemed to penetrate her soul in a very loving and respectful way. He was not as pale as she thought he would be, and he looked a bit thinner through the face. His curly, dark hair seemed more unruly than usual. The covers were tucked under his neck, exposing nothing but his right arm as the nurse continued to check his vital signs. She reached out to touch his hair but stopped short.

"It's okay, miss," said the nurse. "You can touch him, but tell him first. He was given some sedation for an exam he just had, so he'll probably sleep for a while."

Meredith smiled her thanks. "Starsky, it's Meredith. I'm here, partner." She touched his cheek with the back of her hand, then placed her fingers in his hair, just like she had when they made love.

Starsky's eyes opened no wider than slits. "Mer…? Par'ner?" He smiled and fell back to sleep.

Meredith cried silently, from pain and joy and relief. Hutch and Dobey left the room. Sarah, the nurse, faded into the background.

1.6

Later that afternoon in Dobey's command post in the hospital, he, District Attorney Marc Clements, and Sergeant Hutchinson began the first of many sessions devoted to the Gunther case after a sumptuous lunch provided by Huggy Bear. (Hutch had laughed to himself when he saw that Dobey's appetite had been restored with a vengeance.) The DA's intern, Malcolm Wright, sat in to take notes.

"First off, gentlemen," began Clements, "let's determine what our loose ends are. For example, what comes immediately to mind is, who and where are the shooters? Getting them would be a lock on convicting Gunther on the attempted murder charges. Second…"

The telephone rang, stopping the DA. Dobey answered, "What!" obviously irritated that his calls had not been held as instructed. "Oh, sorry, Mrs. Walters." Hutch's ears perked up at the name. "Things have been a bit hectic around here lately….Yes, he's right here." Dobey thrust the receiver at Hutch, his expression making it clear that the detective better hurry this call along.

"Mrs. Walters, this is Ken."

"Ken honey, I know this is a bad time, but I need your help. Ever since David was shot, Junior hadn't been actin' right. We've wanted to visit, but we couldn't find out where he is. Anyway, Junior's not eatin' and he's gone for hours, but nobody knows where. And today, his teacher calls me to ask if he's plannin' on droppin' outta school since he's lost some much time. This thing with David has really, well, messed him up. He's so lost without him. Find my baby grandson for me. He trusts you, Ken, 'cause you're David's friend."

Hutch was impressed with the woman's composure under such stressful conditions. And Hutch sympathized with Jackson; _I'm lost without him at my side, too._ "Don't worry, Mrs. Walters, I'll find him. And once I get the go-ahead to tell you where Starsky, uh David is, I'll come pick you two up."

"Thank you, child. Give my love to David, would you? And Sammi sends her love, too."

"I will." He gave the receiver back to Dobey to hang up, who snatched it out of his hand. "Trouble with Junior?"

"Not sure, Cap'n."

"Can we get back to business here?" The DA had no problem expressing his anger at the interruption.

"Uh, sorry, Clements," apologized Hutch. "Where were we?"

1.7

The meeting went longer than expected, and it was almost 7 p.m. before Hutch began the short trek back to his partner's room. As he rounded the corner, he stopped short when he saw a tall, slender, most likely male figure in hospital whites peeping cautiously into Starsky's room. He felt the fiery rage in his belly ignite at the thought that this person might do some harm to Starsky. He ran up to the voyeur silently. Using his left hand to grab the figure by the arm, his right hand automatically made its way to the butt of the Magnum resting under his armpit.

"What are you…" He stopped as he swung the peeper around and recognized him. "Jackson! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Watching after Starsky." The black teenaged boy said it so simply and matter-of-factly that Hutch laughed with relief.

"I just spoke with your grandmother, and she's very worried about you. And how did you find Starsky?"

"Didn't take much to figure it out. Even though St. Peter's is closer to Metro, Memorial has the best trauma team in the county. This is where I would have taken him."

Hutch had placed his right hand on the back of Jackson's neck. "Where did you learn to think like that?"

"Sammi. And Starsky."

"Oh Lord, help us if there's someone else who thinks like Starsky!" Hutch looked proudly in the dark brown eyes that were level with his. _Geez_, he thought_, Jackson's taller than Starsk!_ _He'll tower over me soon._ "Come on, fill me in on what's been going on with you. Then we'll call your grandmother, and I'll take you in to see Starsky. Deal?"

Jackson quickly filled Hutch in while they stood outside Starsky's room. Jackson had gotten employment as an orderly at Memorial just two days after the shooting. He couldn't keep up with both school and a full-time job, so he had let school slide: "I figured Starsky needed me more than my school or Gran'ma did" was his reasoning. He had even volunteered for overtime so he could legitimately stay longer, and frequently didn't leave once his shift was over.

"How could I not have noticed you before this?" This disturbed Hutch; it made him question his own observational abilities. Being preoccupied with Starsky's status was no excuse; if anything, he should have been more aware of his surroundings. After all, he had barely prevented the second attempt on his partner's life. Despite that, he still hadn't noticed Jackson. He wondered what else he had missed.

"I'm pretty good at making myself invisible, Hutch. Besides, black people are often overlooked."

Hutch shook his head in sadness because he knew what the boy said was too true. "You're a good man, Jackson. And a good friend. Starsky is very fortunate to have you as a friend."

"He'd do the same for me. He's my brother, man."

Hutch embraced Jackson for a few moments. "Let's call your grandmother."

That night was the first official slumber party in Starsky's room. The doctors and nurses were thwarted at every turn when they tried to empty the room of everyone but Starsky and Hutch. Eventually, Harold and Edith Dobey (Rosie and Cal were left at home with a babysitter) left around midnight. Huggy Bear scored a pillow and blanket and stretched his long, slender frame in one corner of the large room. Jackson, armed with his own pillow and blanket, claimed another corner. Meredith took the chair next to the bed that Hutch and Starsky shared.

Starsky had no bad dreams that night.

~s&h~

A few minutes after nine the next morning, a white man with average looks and build, appearing to be in his mid-thirties, walked up to the reception desk in Memorial Hospital's lobby. "Could you direct me to the employment office, please?"


	2. Chapter 2

**The Phoenix and the Dragon:**

Part 2

2.1

No one could believe the progress David Michael Starsky had made in the last few weeks, just as no one could believe he had even survived the massive trauma from multiple gunshots. Since the arrest of James Gunther and the return of Joan Meredith into his life, the death-defying detective's recovery proceeded at a phenomenal rate. He started with psychological counseling the day after Gunther's arraignment. Physical therapy began in earnest the day after that.

However, there were two trouble spots in Starsky's recovery that weren't in any plan of care, but he kept his own counsel. He feared the answers he would get if he broached the subjects with anyone, even Hutch. And because no one else brought up the subjects, his fears increased. He figured they didn't want him to have the bad news.

Physical therapy proved to be the hardest thing the detective could remember doing in years. But he pushed himself more than anyone dreamed he would or could. It only took three days before he could tolerate standing. It was only one more before he started walking, albeit with the assistance of parallel bars and two husky aides. The big treatment room, filled with other therapists and patients, as well as a few select visitors, thundered with their applause at his achievement.

Also watching the recovering detective take those first steps was a new orderly, who was getting a full tour of the hospital as part of his new employee orientation. No one noticed that he didn't clap. In fact, he was hardly noticed at all.

2.2

On the day Starsky took his first steps, Captain Dobey called Hutchinson and Meredith into his hospital office.

"Okay, you two, here's the deal," Dobey began in his best dare-to-challenge-me voice. "Starsky is gettin' better, and he doesn't need you here constantly. You can take some time off when he goes home. But right now, I need me two detectives – there are still bad guys out there. And this Gunther business is far from over. So, I'm makin' you two partners for now." Hutch and Meredith looked at each other and smiled in agreement. "You two will take some calls and pick up some new cases, but you will be primarily working on the Gunther case. Clements is on my back to make sure we have every _t_ crossed and every _i_ dotted. I expect you won't disappoint him _or_ me."

Dobey stood and walked around his desk to stand in front of the new partners. "Find the damned shooters. I know the trail is pretty cold, but neither you" – he pointed his pencil at Hutch – "_nor_ Starsky is safe until we have them in custody. I have a funny feeling about those guys. My guess is that they won't give up, even with Gunther behind bars. They're too professional, even though they made a mistake. Now, get out there and find those turkeys!" He walked back to his chair. The detectives hadn't budged.

"Well, what is it now?"

"About Jackson, Captain?"

"Yeah, well, the Walters boy will be transferred to work on the floor where Starsky'll be moved tomorrow. They're giving him a private room because he has too many people hangin' around him all the time! And by the way, also startin' tomorrow, I'll be back at Metro." He paused, waiting for some kind of response from the two. When none came, he yelled, "Well, get outta my office!"

"Yes, sir!" Hutch and Meredith said together. Hutch gave Dobey a sloppy salute with his left hand. Meredith barely maintained her composure.

Dobey half-rose out of this chair, "Meredith, get him outta my sight if you know what's good for your partner. And I hope you do a better job at taming _Blondie _here than you did with _Curly_!"

Meredith grabbed the sleeve of Hutch's jacket and pulled him out of the office. Somehow he managed to keep from stumbling too much. Once safely in the hallway, they both began laughing uncontrollably. They were already giddy from watching the child-like delight on Starsky's sweaty, pained visage as he took his first steps in weeks. The meeting with the chronically irritable captain of detectives was just enough to send the new partners over the edge into peals of laughter. Slowly they recovered.

"Come on, partner, let's go get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. I'll fill you in on what little we have on the shooters." Hutch offered Meredith his arm.

The policewoman wrapped her arm around the policeman's and replied, "Good idea, detective. Then we'll tell Starsky."

They walked in companionable silence to the hospital cafeteria. As they got to the cashier to pay, he refused. "No charge, officers. We heard Starsky walked today. Consider it something to toast with."

They thanked him and went in search of a quiet table for the business at hand. As they slid into the booth, Hutch said, "I'll start at the beginning of this sordid little tale. Maybe you'll pick up on something everyone else has overlooked. It all began with Lionel Rigger, a small-time dope dealer…"

Meredith was spellbound by the convoluted tale of how the now-deceased dealer helped to bring about the fall of the most powerful man in the United States. Hutch's telling was thorough; she rarely had to interrupt him with questions when she needed something fleshed out a bit more. She thought it most interesting that Starsky and Hutch's investigation pretty much stopped with the arrest of Deputy DA Clayburn. "Why didn't you pursue this further with Clayburn?" she asked.

"Well, hindsight says we should have. But Starsk and I weren't officially back on the force when we got Clayburn. We didn't have access to any files, and Dobey took us off the case because there were other, more pressing matters. After all, he had been down two detectives in a very busy division."

"You know I have to ask this, Hutch. But do you think Dobey…"

The blond man wouldn't let her finish. "Unequivocally, absolutely not. Dobey has gone out on too many limbs for us over the years, and especially while we investigated this little matter as private citizens. I'd trust Dobey with my life, and so would Starsky. If he had had a clue that this mess didn't stop with McClellan and Clayburn, he would have put us on it."

Hutch's certainty shredded any doubts she had about the captain. "From what I know of Dobey, I'd have to agree. Go on."

The pain showed all too well in his light blue eyes as he focussed on the booth behind Meredith. He told the story of the shooting and everything else that followed in minute detail. At times, he closed his eyes. She guessed it was an effort to block some of the more agonizing memories. She began to understand this big, blond blintz whom Starsky loved so much. Along with that handsome Scandinavian face, he also had a keen mind, a heart that had much love, a thoughtful, reserved attitude, and a purpose in life that he believed in passionately. She didn't interrupt him until he stopped of his own accord and took a huge gulp of his cold coffee. Then, with defeat in his eyes, he stared at her.

_Don't give up, Hutch. Starsky needs you. I need you._ "Close your eyes, Hutch. Go back to the shooting." He hesitated. Silently she pleaded, _Work with me!_

He closed his eyes.

"Okay. You hear the car grind against another. Now, pretend this is the start of a silent movie. You can't hear anything else any longer. Go through that movie frame by frame and tell me what you see."

"There's light – maybe the sun? – reflecting off the car windshield. Can't see in. It comes around. I see a gun barrel come out the passenger window."

"Do you look beyond that? Try to remember."

"Maybe. It's a man, I'm pretty sure, white, average. Mostly, the shooter is a blur." His eyes popped open and he stared at her again. "But I can't remember anything else!"

Meredith sensed that his frustration level was beginning to skyrocket, so she decided to back off, but not all the way. She agreed with Dobey; Starsky and Hutchinson were still far from safe. "What about the guys who attacked you here. Yes, no, maybe?"

"Definitely no. Not unless one of them could grow a full and genuine mustache in less than 48 hours." Hutch's face lit up. "Mustache. Neither shooter in the car had a mustache!"

"Now we're getting somewhere! Maybe you saw more than you realize." She sipped her own cold coffee while she thought. "Hutch, would you consider hypnosis? I think you could remember more with help."

He waited a few moments before answering, "Let me think about it, okay? I'm not sure I like the idea of someone…of me…you know."

"I understand. It will only work if the person is willing."

Hutch was starting to feel very good about this partnership and about the investigation. He decided to change the subject. "Awfully nice of that guy to give us free coffee. Isn't it amazing the impact Starsky has on people he hasn't even met?"

"People have a tendency to rally around someone they consider a hero. He's a hero for just surviving." She watched as Hutch sadly nodded. "He's their 'miracle man,' Hutch. And I hope you realize you're a hero, too."

"_What_? I'm no hero. I let my partner down. He almost died because I chose to duck rather than fire on those…jackals. _He_ tried to return fire, to protect me. _I_ had the cover of the car and I _still_ hit the deck. I shoulda…" He hesitated. Meredith could see the fire and self-loathing in his eyes flare up. "I shoulda crouched and fired. I let him down in the worst way. I am no hero."

"Hutch, from what I know about the shooting, you saw the danger and warned him. But it happened too fast. I suspect that even if he had ducked, he still would have gotten shot. He had nowhere to go. You didn't get wounded because they made a mistake."

"But he chose to fight 'em!" Hutch choked back his tears on his unspoken thought: _I waited until it was safe and too damned late_.

_That's it! That's the crux of his problem – he considers himself a coward!_ "Perhaps, but that was Starsky being Starsky. He barges in where angels _and _devils fear to tread. And he puts you ahead of himself, Hutch. He puts just about everyone ahead of himself, but you most of all." She paused and wondered to herself, _Should I just come out and say it? Oh hell, why not. I've come this far._ "You are no coward, Hutch. You tried to save Starsky the best way, probably the only way under the circumstances, you knew how. It's not your fault he chose not to act as you told him. And it's not his fault he chose to be himself. His wounds were Gunther's fault."

Hutch stared into his nearly empty Styrofoam cup for several long minutes. _Maybe she's right_, he finally conceded to himself. He reached over and covered her small hands with one of his. "Starsky is a very lucky man, Meredith. No wonder he loves you so much. And I'm lucky to call you 'partner'."

Her skin was light enough for him to detect a faint blush. "Go ahead, ask me," he said teasingly.

"Ask you what, Detective Hutchinson?"

"Ask me how I know Starsky is in love with you."

Her heart decided to go dancing in her chest. "Okay, I'll bite. How?"

"It's in his eyes, the way he looks at you. He's never told me he's in love with you, but I can tell. He's loved you since that case you worked on together. And you love him, or you wouldn't be here. Besides, you look at Starsk differently than you look at everyone else."

"Now I know how you made Detective so quickly out of the academy."

"Let's go see the man, partner. It's feeding time, and you know how he hates to eat his mystery meat without someone around for him to grouse about it."

2.3

David Starsky groaned when he saw the lumps of various colors – brown, green, yellow – that further diminished his already sagging appetite. "Hey," he rasped at the rapidly departing dietician's aide, "I can't eat this stuff. It looks like…like hazardous waste from Love Canal."

The aide grinned back at him over her shoulder as she opened the door to leave. "Doctor's orders, sir!" She promptly collided with a tall, slender, black man with dark almond-shaped eyes. "Oops! Sorry, sir."

"The pleasure is all mine," Huggy Bear said in a stage whisper as he watched the shapely backside of the girl move down the hall.

"Huggy! Good to see ya. Come on in." Starsky's mood improved on seeing one of his best friends, but his appetite didn't.

"Greetings and salutations, my man. Just came by for my daily visit to this den of suffering." Huggy gazed down at Starsky's tray and screwed up his face in disgust. "And I see they are makin' you suffer greatly."

"Well, the least they could do is give me some tortillas so I wouldn't hafta _look_ at this…stuff," he whined. Food, and all the sensuous pleasures that go along with it, was something Starsky really missed. "You don't happen to be carryin' any _real_ food on ya, wouldja, Hug?"

Huggy spread his arms out and said, "Do you see any place where I could have hidden anything?" His brown-and-blue paisley shirt and tan pants were skin tight.

"You're wearin' bellbottoms. You could have sumpin' in your socks."

Huggy laughed through his nose. "What kind of medication they got you on? But seriously, Starsky, why the pureed delight?"

"Coupla reasons. Throat, gut, whatever. Said they have to advance me slowly. If they take too much longer, I'll have wasted away."

"I hear you, my man. Tell me, if you could have anything in the world to eat, what would it be? Uh,uh, no pizza, spaghetti, or root beer. No burritos, tacos, nachos, neither. _Comprendez_?"

Starsky sat back against his pillows to consider how to answer Huggy's query. He automatically tried to raise his arms so he could put his hands behind his head, but his body revolted. He screamed in agony.

"Starsky, what is it? Did somethin' come loose inside? Where's your nurse? I thought you were supposed to have one at all times."

The detective saw the fear in his friend's eyes. "No, no, I'm okay," he answered between the panting breaths he was taking. "Keep forgettin' I can't do that. Hell, can't even brush my own teeth yet." _Damn, will I ever be a cop again, out on the streets with Hutch? I can't even brush my own teeth!_ "And Doc said today I didn't need my own nurse since I'm ready for a regular room."

"The pearly-white care will come, m'man. I know it will. You will _make_ it happen."

Starsky gave Huggy a grin. "I appreciate your vote of confidence."

"So, what's the menu?"

This time, Starsky took just a few deep breaths to help control the pain caused by moving his arms. "Veal. I don't care how it's fixed. Veal. And a big, ol' antipasta from that little Italian restaurant."

"Starsky, which of the hundred and fifty little Italian restaurants in the metropolitan area do you mean? You've eaten in every single one," chided Huggy.

"Oh, you know the one. On Broad, near Felton. Hutch and I took you there for your birthday las' year, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. Starsky, what _is_ it with you and Italian restaurants? If it was me, I wouldn't step foot in one of them again if I had gotten shot in one. Bad memories are powerful appetite suppressants, ya dig?"

Before Starsky could respond, there was a quick knock at the door. Hutch and Meredith walked in together. Starsky's mood took a giant leap upwards, and the pain seemed to slack off slightly.

Huggy darted over to Meredith. He took her hand, and bowed to kiss it. "As always, I am thrilled to gaze upon the beautiful countenance of my future wife."

Meredith, laughing, withdrew her hand and followed Hutch to the bedside. "Hiya, partner." She leaned over and kissed the curly-haired man gently on the cheek. "Missed you."

"Yeah, that was a long three hours." They only had eyes for each other. Huggy caught Hutch's attention and gave him a questioning look. Hutch nodded once and shrugged his shoulders.

"Hey, you two," Huggy directed to Starsky and Meredith, "get a room, would ya? Just remember, that this little tryst is only temporary. I will claim my bride when she comes to her senses and realizes chocolate is much tastier than matza balls." The three detectives burst into laughter.

Huggy gestured with his hands to signal for them to calm down. "Well, good people, I'm outta here. My dip 'n' sip won't run itself. Is the slumber party still on for tomorrow night?"

"Absolutely," said Hutch.

"See ya, Hug." Starsky paused as they watched the tall man saunter confidently out of the room. "So what's up with you two? Where ya been?"

"Uh, well, you see, Starsk," Hutch began after venturing a quick glance at Meredith, "Dobey is putting me back to work. Says I can't hang out with you as much. Plus the DA is on our backs about Gunther."

"But I _need_ you with me, Hutch."

"Aw, buddy, and I need to be with you. But if Gunther gets off and we don't find the shooters, I'll never forgive myself. But I'll be here at night."

Starsky pouted, but he knew Hutch and the captain were right. Gunther couldn't be allowed to walk. "Yeah, I guess that'll be okay."

"Uh, got some other news, too. Dobey assigned me a new partner." Starsky's midnight eyes opened widely, the panic and shock in them all too apparent to Hutch. "It's, uh, Meredith."

Starsky turned his eyes to the beautiful woman standing so close to him. "That's terrific. You two will make a great team." He tried to sound enthusiastic, but his heart fell into the pit of his stomach. He felt he was being consumed, burned up, turning to ashes on the inside. His first unspoken fear had materialized. _They've already decided I can't come back. Injuries less serious than what I got are an automatic out, I know that! Who am I kiddin'? Why am I even bothering?_

Hutch was dismayed; he knew exactly was his partner was thinking. "Starsk, buddy, you realize this is only temporary, don't you?" _Dear God, this sounds so trite and empty._ "The bad guys don't stop. And this keeps Meredith in this division."

"Yeah, sure, babe." Starsky thought he did a good job pretending to be understanding and reassuring. "Now don't go gettin' any ideas about my lady here," he continued in an effort to lighten the mood.

Meredith, who had been watching the interaction between the two men closely, piped in. "Don't you worry, Starsky. No one can replace you." She didn't add, "in my heart," because that didn't cover enough. _I hope he believes that just half as much as I do._

A tense but still friendly silence hung in the air for a few seconds. Hutch broke the quiet. "Buddy, eat while I tell you about what might be a break in id'ing the shooters." His heart almost shattered when he saw Starsky strain mightily to make his left arm function just enough to feed himself.

Starsky sighed in anger. "Dammit!" he screamed as best he could. "Will I ever…" He bit off the last of the question. His vision blurred from pain, frustration, and tears. He turned his head away from the new partners.

Meredith responded first. "That…food is cold, anyway. I'll run to the cafeteria and get you a milkshake. What flavor?"

Hutch spoke for him. "Strawberry, please, Meredith. And thanks."

Once she was gone, Hutch stroked the side of his partner's head. _That's weird. I can see a bald streak where Joey Martin's bullet grazed him…Damn! That was yet another time I let him down._ "Yes you will, buddy, yes you will. But you can't expect to be back to normal overnight. Hell, it's barely been a week since you came out of a coma." Hutch sat on the side of the bed and gently laid his hand on Starsky's knee.

A few minutes later, Starsky stirred. "Hutch, I'm sorry. It's just that…it hurts so much alla time. And PT is hell! I didn't hurt this bad when I woke up! Ain't I supposed to be gettin' better?"

"Oh, buddy, you are. And physical therapy is going to hurt. We'll work something out with the docs and nurses. You will get better. You already are."

Starsky finally faced his partner again. It was comforting to see those sky blue eyes so filled with hope. "Thanks, babe. You're the greatest."

Hutch clapped his friend on the knee a couple of times and smiled. "You might change your mind when I tell you this. Starsk, I, uh, got a few personal matters to tend to." _My new partner sure gave me a lot to think about._ "Would you mind too terribly if just Meredith stayed with you tonight?" He saw the anxiety rise in Starsky's expression. "But I swear I'll be here by 6 a.m." He crossed his heart and gave the Boy Scout salute.

"But Hutch…" He stopped. Hutch had barely left his side, and when he had it had been on police business. _Don't be selfish, you little brat. Ma would never forgive you._ "Sure. Meredith and I will be fine. But I still need you, and I'll miss ya, Blintz." _There is an up side to this. I get to sleep with Meredith – alone!_

For a brief moment, Hutch's feelings were hurt since Starsky had agreed so readily with a minimum of whining. Then it dawned on him. _Sometimes I'm real slow._ "Thanks, buddy, for knowing what I need, always looking after me."

Meredith re-entered the room without knocking. She thrust the large milkshake at the patient and ordered, "Drink! Or I will arrest you for resisting, mister."

The dark-haired man smiled widely. "Oh, Officer, I could never resist you." With her help, he devoured the treat while she and her new partner filled him in on most of what they had discussed earlier.

2.4

Even in its heyday, the St. Francis Hotel would never have made it on any list of recommended accommodations. Now, it was just another flophouse, renting rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. Surprisingly, serious trouble rarely occurred there, the last time being the murder of a closeted gay cop who had witnessed another cop dealing drugs.

Two nondescript men had checked in the previous week, requesting adjoining rooms. The clerk only cared that they had paid for a month's rent in real twenty-dollar bills. They were quiet and didn't hog the communal shower.

Just as Detective Sergeant Starsky was enjoying his strawberry milkshake in his room at Memorial Hospital, these two men were discussing him in their hotel room a few miles away.

"I saw him today, Frankie. I was getting the grand tour. He was in physical therapy, walking for the first time. His partner was there, along with a black woman. If she's a cop, she's not based out of Metro. Seeing that determination in his eyes and knowing how the blond one made Gunther, I wish they were on our team. They would be superior hitters."

Frankie laughed cynically. "Yeah, like they would do something like that, Mitch. You read their profiles, just like I did. Weird coincidence that Starsky and I were in 'Nam at the same time." He shook his head. "Did you convince your new boss to let you float?"

The man named Mitch nodded and smirked. "No problem. They need help so bad, I think they would let me operate. Reconnaissance shouldn't take long since I can rightfully be anywhere in that hospital. Do you have the cars ready?"

"Almost," replied Frankie. "Two more ought to do it. And I have the streets and alleys memorized. I'll be ready to start the tail on Big Swede tomorrow afternoon."

Mitch nodded his head, pleased that they were on the road to finishing the job and saving their reputations. "We still need a code name for our patient. Any ideas yet?"

"Both these guys are loose cannons, but Starsky takes the cake. And that hair. Uh, how about 'Wild Thing'?"

Mitch considered it briefly. "Let's go with that. From now on, we no longer speak our targets' real names." As he approached the door to his room, he said over his shoulder, "After I shower, let's get dinner. Chinese."

"Sure." Frankie slumped down in his chair. _Mitch will finish what I started, Starsky, and I'll do your partner. _Nobody _makes us look bad._

2.5

About midnight, a loud, coarse scream jolted Joan Meredith awake. She reached for her weapon strapped to her ankle and jumped out of the lounge chair she was sleeping in. Checking Starsky first, she saw he was alone and in the throes of a bad nightmare. She quickly scanned the rest of the room and found nothing out of the ordinary in the dim light. She put the gun in the waistband of her trousers at the small of her back before she approached him.

"David," she said loudly before she touched him, "it's me, Meredith." She trapped his upper arms against the bed. She heard the door open and knew it would be Angela, his night nurse. His hands were clenching the sheets, but he released them when he felt her touch. The next instant he was awake and staring at Meredith's worried eyes. "It's just a bad dream, David." The terror on his face made her want to sob.

He exhaled heavily. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." He spoke in soft, short, raspy breaths. He was drenched in sweat. Angela was at his side now, too. "David, you're hyperventilating. Concentrate on breathing deep and slow, like we've taught you."

Meredith had released his arms. He was clutching his chest and grimacing while he worked to slow his breathing. "David," Angela continued in her soothing, alto voice, "are you hurting, or scared?"

"Yeah, both counts," he whispered.

"Tell you what. I'll go get you some pain meds, and some linen. You're soaked! Maybe you'd like to tell Joan about the dream while I'm gone?" Angela rested her hand on his shoulder for a few moments and left the room.

Meredith stroked his arm. "Want to tell me about, Starsky?"

"Uh, no." His voice, more hoarse since the scream, was also shaky. "Can't remember now, anyways." He started hiccuping. This intensified his pain so much that he cried out after each hiccup. He soon became nauseated as well. He curled up and jerked spasmodically as a prelude to vomiting. _Oh God, I just wanna die._

Meredith felt lost and helpless. All she could do was rub his lower back. The partially open back of the hospital gown allowed her to have first look at the exit wounds. Red, puckered, jagged scars. One looked like it had been infected. Another was so close to an older scar from an earlier bullet. Just seeing them made her hurt. "Come on, Angela, where are you? He needs his pills." She was nervous and angry, and hoped that Starsky hadn't heard her.

Five seconds later, Angela reappeared with an orderly in tow. "Dave, sorry it took so long. Had to hunt down the narcotics keys. Danny's here to help." Danny, a tall, lanky farm boy from Iowa hoping to break into the movies, began filling a basin with water.

"Meredith, could you help hold his hip still? It'll be easier if I don't have to hit a moving target. Dave, I thought you'd be nauseated, so here's a shot for that." She had it injected before she finished talking. "Now take a deep breath and hold as long as you can."

Starsky almost cursed her because such an action seemed useless. But he did anyway. When he exhaled, the hiccups had ceased. Angela then gave him his pain medication in liquid form.

"Next, we gotta get you cleaned up and out of this wet shirt and change your linen. If you want to stay, Officer, it's okay."

"NO!" Starsky was emphatic.

"No problem, Starsky. I need to step out for a few minutes." _He's not ready for me to see him._ Meredith made her way to the public bathroom where she doused her face repeatedly with cool water. _Will he ever let me see? Why must I love him so?_ she asked her image in the mirror.

By the time she made it back to his room, Danny was leaving with an armload of linen. She watched silently as Angela finished straightening up the room. "I'll check on you in half an hour," the nurse whispered.

Starsky felt less tense, and he was no longer trying to retch. The pain medication had not yet kicked in, so he held a pillow tightly to his chest. "Thanks," he mouthed.

Angela gave the black detective a quiet smile as she left the room. Meredith stood a few feet away from Starsky's bed, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Meredith, I gotta be honest with you," he said, sounding like a little boy confessing to stealing a nickel from his mother's purse. "I really wish Hutch was here. I feel…safe with him, I trust him and love him like no other person on earth."

The woman's eyes began to feel with tears. She hoped and prayed this wouldn't be the kiss-off she'd been dreading in the back of her mind since she came back.

Starsky, despite his pain and fear, could read her body language so easily. _Oh, man, I'm gonna mess this up!_ he raged at himself. "I need him more'n anybody. But that don't mean I don't need you, too. I jus' don't want you to think that I…that I…don't love you. Don't let me push you away, no matter how hard I try." He looked at her hard, seeing deep into her heart, searching for her answer.

A few heartbeats went by. Before she knew it, she was inches from Starsky's face. "Don't worry. You're not getting rid of me."

His heart felt tons lighter. His Adam's apple began to bob as he choked back his own tears. "Meredith, I'm in love with you." His indigo eyes told her how much.

She took his face in her hands and smothered him with kisses. "Oh, Starsky, I love you, too. Ever since that day in the park."

He grinned from ear to ear. He gave her a long, deep kiss before whispering in her ear, "Sleep with me?" He slowly scooted over to give her room.

She crawled under the sheets with him. She couldn't stop smiling. "Where can I put my head?"

They both rocked with laughter at the sexual connotations of that question. "Well, there's no place on my chest that don't hurt. So's how about you put your head next to mine?"

Meredith did as he requested. She ran her fingers along his thigh for a few seconds before placing her hand there to rest. She sent silent thanks to Hutch for giving them this time.

He turned his head so he could see and smell her. The soft fragrances of her shampoo and soap were long gone, and the only smell now was her own. He found her scent erotic and intoxicating. He wanted her badly, remembering how it was before.

Suddenly, he realized in horror that he didn't have an erection. His second unspoken fear had materialized. He turned his head away from her and stared hopelessly at the wall.

_Goddamn you, Gunther! You didn't kill me, you sonuvabitch, but you fuckin' won anyway! My life is worse than death, so you won! Goddamn you, Gunther, and goddamn me…_

At just that moment, on the second floor of Venice Place, as he played his guitar, Hutch felt his heart skip a beat.

2.6

Hutch and Meredith helped Starsky get settled in his new room. Both were well aware that he seemed unusually subdued this morning. They attributed it to the move - yet another milestone in his recovery. Starsky was silently weighing his options.

An orderly pushing an empty wheelchair showed up at the door. "I'm here to take Mr. Starsky to PT."

"Right here," Starsky answered without much enthusiasm. It had been about 45 minutes since he had taken his pain pills, but he still hurt considerably. His work-out would make it much worse. And now, he wasn't sure he wanted to exert the effort.

The man, wearing a badge that indicated his name was Ernie Michaelson, parked the wheelchair next to the bed. Hutch jumped forward and said, "Here, let me give you a hand transferring him." The two men easily lifted Starsky into the chair.

Starsky watched as the orderly flipped the footrests into place and release the breaks. _There's somethin' familiar about his _hands_! And the way he holds his head._ "Hey, what's your name?"

"Ernie, sir."

"You look familiar, but I can't place ya. You new here, or what?" Hutch, feeling something was up, began paying close attention to the conversation. Starsky's well-hidden suspicion of this fellow was transparent to him. He felt the fire in his belly grow hotter.

"I'm new here, Mr. Starsky. Started yesterday. I just moved to California from North Carolina. Couldn't take the army any more."

"I hear ya. But I still feel like I seen ya before."

"Well, sir, I was in PT yesterday when you walked. They tell me it was your first steps in a long time."

"Yeah, it was. Well, let's get goin', Ernie from North Carolina. We can't keep Barbara and her goons waitin' for me. And call me Dave or Starsky, but not 'Mister,' okay?"

"Okay, Dave." Before Ernie started pushing the wheelchair, Hutch lightly squeezed Starksky's left shoulder, which made the injured man wince. "Take care, buddy. See you at lunch. Gotta be a cop this morning."

"'Kay."

As he watched Starsky and Ernie make their way to PT, Hutch began feeling uneasy. It was almost a sense of impending doom. "Let's get to work, Meredith. What do you say to rounding up some information on assassin pairs?"

"Let's do it, Detective."

Starsky was feeling unsettled. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on. Ernie seemed nice enough. There was nothing special or unusual or outstanding about him. He was just an ordinary guy. But this feeling he got in the orderly's presence was one he hadn't had in a while. As he rolled to PT, he tried to recall the last time he felt this way.

2.7

Starsky put himself on autopilot during therapy. He worked hard, harder than Barbara, his primary therapist, expected or wanted. It seemed some other part of him insisted on beginning weight training. A part of him was aware of the excruciating pain he had with the range of motion exercises for his arms and with holding himself erect to walk. But to most of him, all that seemed distant and surreal.

"Great work-out, Dave! You are amazing!" Barbara's enthusiastic comments brought the entire detective back to reality. He reeled from pain and fatigue. His hospital gown and scrub pants were soaking wet from his sweat. He glared at Barbara as if she were totally insane.

"We have a treat for you this morning," Barbara continued. "We got permission for you to shower! Your doc said it was okay. We have a shower chair for you to sit in, and Evan and Mick'll help you. I'll see you this afternoon."

"Terrific," he heard someone say who sounded just like him.

Evan lumbered over to Starsky. _This guy puts the Omaha Tiger to shame_, Starsky thought as the huge man picked him up with tender ease. He felt dwarfed and insignificant in this aide's arms. Starsky had nicknamed him "Evan the Terrible" because he was gargantuan and looked menacing. The detective had also learned to associate him with the agony of physical therapy, though the big man never inflicted any on him.

Once in the shower room right off the main PT room, Mick worked Starsky's pants off while he was still in Evan's arms. Starsky started to blush. Ordinarily, he was very unself-conscious about his body among fellow cops around the gym, close friends like Huggy, Hutch, and a few selected lady friends. But this was a different story. _Cool it, man. These guys are professionals. They don't care if you're a man – I hope._ He pushed his concerns away, because they might spoil what he was suddenly looking forward to.

Evan delicately placed Starsky in the shower chair. In no time, the very damp hospital gown was off. Mick, who had been standing a couple of feet in front of Starsky, moved to turn the shower on. "How ya like your water, Dave?" he asked as he let the warm fluid run over his hand. When there was no response for a few long seconds, he turned to see Starsky staring at the mirror that he, Mick, had been blocking.

What he had avoided so ardently finally happened. The dark-haired man stared at the image staring back at him. Thirty pounds lighter, pale, hooded, tired eyes. And scars – lots of scars. A sick, twisted, complicated maze of scars. He went numb and retreated to where reality was distant, before he got completely lost in that horror that looked back. He found a cave to crawl into, where he could be safe, and he had no intentions of ever coming out.

It was apparent to both aides what had happened. Evan laid a beefy hand cautiously and tenderly on Starsky's right shoulder. Mick, in great distress, said, "Aw, man, I didn't know you hadn't seen…" He gulped. "I'm sorry, man, so sorry." Mick signaled to Evan that they should start his shower. Once they had him in the shower arena, Starsky closed his eyes.

There she was, without warning. _Terry!_ He dared not open his eyes, afraid she'd be gone. _ Am I…am I dyin'?_

_Yes, best friend, you are, just like everyone is dying. I was lucky to be _alive_ my last few days. And you made them very special. You gave me everything you had, without reservation or expectation of anything in return. Now I want you to give me something else._

_Anything, sweetheart, anything! Name it, it's yours!_

She smiled laughingly. _You know what I want._ Then she was gone as quickly as she had come. His heart ached for her, but somehow he didn't feel empty.

By the time Mick finished rinsing the shampoo and soap off Starsky, the detective opened one eye tentatively. Terry was still gone, and he was back in the shower room, the cave only a few steps behind him. He allowed himself to enjoy his freshly cleaned body. As Mick and Evan diligently dried him off – _Evan, you give a great head massage_ – he caught a movement in his peripheral vision_._ _Ernie?_ he wondered, but he couldn't be sure. He shuddered. _Did somebody just walk over my grave?_

2.8

Hutchinson ran his hands through his longish blond locks, then finger-groomed his mustache. He had come back to the hospital early for lunch and waited in the solarium for his partner to return from physical therapy. Meredith was at Metro, attending to some important matters related to her undercover assignment in D.C. He stood and started to pace, unsure what was making him so apprehensive. _Have I missed something? Is Starsk in danger? What _is _it?_

With his Starsky radar on full alert, Hutch stopped and looked down the hall, focussing on the nurses' station. Ernie was just stopping at the desk with Starsky in tow. He started to walk briskly toward the two men, then broke into a jog. He saw the medication nurse, who was still behind the desk, hand Ernie a small cup. The orderly then proceeded to place the cup to Starsky's lips.

"Uh, stop, Ernie," Hutch said loudly as he skidded to a halt in front of the wheelchaired Starsky. "He's my partner. Let me give him his pills, okay?"

"Sure, no problem, Detective Hutchinson." Ernie held the cup out for Hutch to take. Hutch gazed intently at Ernie, memorizing him. Ernie gazed back, smiling and unblinking.

"Hey, you two, down here, I'm down here. Will one-a ya give me my pills? I'm hurtin, already."

"Oh, sure, buddy. Sorry about that." Hutch dumped the pills in Starsky's open mouth.

"Dhwink," Starsky uttered, the pills stuck to his tongue.

"'Dhwink'? What…oh yeah, _drink_." Starsky rolled his eyes and looked perturbed with his partner. The nurse had been holding out a container of thick, beige-colored fluid for him to take. _Must be that every-possible-nutrient-available drink,_ he thought as he took it from her and sniffed it with disgust. He poured some in Starsky's waiting mouth.

The curly-haired man finally gulped the pills and beverage down. "It's about damn time, Blintz," he snapped." Don't give up your day job."

Hutch's heart leapt for joy. Starsky, who had been so quiet and whiny, who had smiled so little and joked even less, was getting his quick temper back. _Another sign of life! _"Starsky, I liked you better when you weren't so irascible."

"Irascible? Who you callin' 'irascible'? How dare you call an injured man such a thing. Ernie, to my room, and don't spare the ponies. I wanna take a nap before lunch."

After Ernie left, Hutch fussed with Starsky's covers as he asked, "What happened? This morning, you hardly said three words. Now…well, I don't know. Wanna talk about it?"

Starsky sighed heavily as he snuggled his clean head into the fresh pillow on his bed. "Maybe later. Right now, I'm tired and I hurt and I want to sleep before lunch." In the few seconds before he fell asleep, he thought, _Is this what you want, Terry? Me not just living but _alive_?_ He barely heard her say, _Thank you._

2.9

There was hell to pay the next morning. The second official slumber party was wild and raucous, with Starsky starring as the ringleader. Neither he nor any of his visitors slept much. In fact, virtually no patient in the vicinity of that room had much sleep. The night nurses had decided to indulge the tight-knit group and tried desperately to make it up to the other patients, offering them earplugs, extra backrubs, visits to the nursery. Once the patients understood the circumstances, they were much more tolerant of the ruckus. One man who suffered multiple trauma in a car accident even asked if he could join them.

But the doctors and the hospital administrator and the patients' families would have no more of it. Everyone, no exception, was banned from spending the night with Detective Sergeant Starsky. He was a grown man, recovering nicely, and security measures remained at a higher-than-usual level. The nursing supervisor chastised the night nurses, but with an approving gleam in her eyes.

Starsky, Hutchinson, and Meredith all griped loudly about the ruling and promised it wouldn't happen again. But nothing could change the administrator's mind.

The Starsky contingent, as the healing detective and his comrades were called, settled into a new routine quickly. Starsky would go to PT in the morning and nap until lunch. Right after lunch, he would speak with a psychologist who specialized in helping survivors of significant trauma. This was followed by another session in PT. Hutch and Meredith would meet their partner for breakfast and dinner. Hutch was also there for lunch. Meredith frequently would miss that meal with them because of her work with MacQueen in D.C. Huggy Bear would show up just after Starsky's afternoon physical therapy session. Huggy would regale him with his usual colorful speech and wild stories of countless relatives; it seemed to take his mind off the pain, which seemed to be at its worst at that time of day. Then he would leave shortly after Hutch and Meredith arrived for dinner. They would stay, talking, reading, watching TV and Starsky sleep, until the evening supervisor kicked them out. Captain Dobey came whenever he could pull away from Metro.

Starsky continued to astonish virtually everyone in the hospital with the pace of his recovery. When he wasn't sleeping, he was eating or drinking. Hutch started to call him "The Amazing Human Garbage Disposal" and insisted he was afraid to put his hand near Starsky's mouth. He had good range of motion with his right arm and hand. He still had some difficulty with his left, but there were improvements every day. One week after the second sleep-over, he was walking with two canes. A week after that, his doctors told him he could go home in another week.

Huggy called Starsky's room after dinner the day he got the news about his impending discharge. Hutch answered. "Ah, Mr. America, just who I wanted to _parlez-vous_ with."

"Yeah, Hug, what is it?"

"How about tonight? Say, midnight? I'll call the good captain. He always enjoys hearing from me."

"You got it. I'll tell Starsk. Perfect timing. He got shit-on-a-shingle again."

"Oh, man, hadn't the dude suffered enough?" Huggy hung up and dialed Dobey at division.

Hutch looked at his partner, who was playing kiss-chess with Meredith. "Ha! I got your queen's knight. You owe me, uh, six kisses." Meredith happily obliged as he triumphantly waved the captured piece just over the board. "Hutch, you wanna play me next? What'd Huggy want?"

Hutch smiled happily and indulgently at his partner behind his back. "I'll play with her, but no way will I play kiss-chess with you. Whoever heard of such a thing? Starsky, you can pervert anything."

Starsky winked at Meredith and said teasingly, "Hey, who's callin' who a pervert? You may enjoy this new and improved version of chess. Don't know unless you try it."

~s&h~

Frankie and Mitch huddled in a back booth of Shirley's Good Eats, a greasy spoon a few blocks from the St. Francis. They felt safe talking here. The food was barely edible (both had had much worse) and the diner was never full.

Mitch shook his head in disbelief. "I saw Wild Thing in PT again today. I _still_ can't believe, after seeing the damage you did, that he even survived. He is doing very well, almost ready to move to one cane. I have to take him out very soon or he will put up too much of a fight. He's also turning out to be a night owl. I may need closer by than anticipated. How're your preparations going for Big Swede's demise?"

Frankie smirked. "The last of the materiel I get today. I'll work on it tonight and it should be operational by morning. He's been an easy tail. Routine has seldom varied. He and that black woman cop have only taken a few simple calls. I'm positive I haven't been spotted. The different cars and hats have worked great."

Mitch nodded his approval. "Tomorrow night, then. I'll switch my day shift with Harry's night."

They lifted their coffee mugs and saluted each other with them. "May Big Swede and Wild Thing enjoy their last night alive."

"Here, here. And may our asking price increase two-fold." This time Mitch smirked, and the pair left.

Neither assassin noticed the small man in a dirty brown overcoat huddled behind their booth, trying to sleep one off in peace. On hearing the last few words, he sank deeper into the shadows. _Won'er who they talkin' about?_

2.10

The next day, news of the feeding frenzy and fiasco in Starsky's room during the night shift was all over the hospital. Most people thought it was pretty cool, but the administrator had had enough. It took Dobey an hour to convince him not to bar him, Huggy, and Hutch completely from the hospital. What finally sold the man was Dobey's promise that Hutch would sing for the kids in the cancer ward.

Detective Hutchinson went home earlier than usual. He was exhausted by the previous night's antics and desperately needed sleep. Luck was with him and he parked in front of the building behind a tan VW Beetle. Just as he was getting out of his car, he saw a man wearing a cowboy hat get in the Beetle. _He looks so familiar_. When he couldn't place him right away, he shook his head and climbed the stairs to his apartment.

_There's that feeling again, like I missed something, that something's not quite right_, he thought as he unlocked the door. He stripped off his black leather jacket, holster, and Magnum. He carefully sat down on the sofa so not to aggravate his back (he had hurt it again trying to climb out of Starsky's bed when the water got to be too much). He felt himself drifting off to sleep rapidly. _Hell, I'm not sleeping in my clothes again._ With great effort, he stripped to his shorts and socks. Settling back on the sofa again, the big blond man was asleep immediately.

Meredith, on the other hand, stayed with Starsky until the nursing supervisor kicked her out. He had been in a wonderful mood for the last couple of weeks. The psychologist had warned them all that this might be short-lived, something like a honeymoon. Once out of the hospital, the reality of a long and painful convalescence would kick in and everyone's mood might suffer. She didn't care. She was happy to have him any way she could. And she was relieved he had not pushed her away.

Jackson Walters came into the room as Meredith was trying to give Starsky his good-night kiss (it was never long enough to suit him, and he insisted each night that they practice until they got it right). Jackson's entry finally made the curly-haired detective cease.

"Hey, Jackson," he said, waving the young man into the room. "You're in early tonight. What's up?" His voice was more hoarse than it had been for days. Last night had taken its toll again.

"We're supposed to watch that Bogart movie, remember?" Jackson was patient with Starsky's short-term memory problems. It hadn't taken him long to learn what pain and its treatment can do to person's mind.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I remember now."

"Goodnight, boys. See you in the morning." Meredith blew kisses to them both. Starsky returned the air kiss. Jackson, still shy around such a beautiful, confident woman, gave her a small wave.

"Aw, Jackson, you better get used to her. I have the feeling she's gonna be around a lot in _my_ life, which means she's gonna be around in _yours_." He slapped the mattress a few times. "Come on over here. Movie's gonna start soon."

Jackson joined Starsky on the bed. The older man tried to put his left arm around his shoulder, but he couldn't quite make it. He inhaled sharply through his teeth. The pain was abruptly tortuous, almost bringing tears to his eyes. "Jackson, do me a favor," Starsky said through clenched teeth, "and ask the nurse for some pain pills, wouldja?" The detective had a feeling this would be a rough night.

~s&h~

Starsky was having a rough night. He was restless, unable to find a comfortable position. The few times he did manage to fall asleep, he dreamed about fire and steel. Both his nurse and Jackson tried backrubs, singing, jokes, and even card tricks, but nothing worked. On the approval of the physician on-call, he got an extra dose of pain medication and a light sedative about 3 a.m.

~s&h~

Hutchinson woke up in a sweat. His back ached and he felt like kicking himself when he realized he was still on the couch. He took great care in rising. Placing his hands on his back at the waist, he moved around the apartment in the dark. The dogs of his new backyard neighbor sounded as if they were auditioning for a heavy metal band. He glanced at his kitchen clock and moaned when he saw it was almost 4 a.m. "Damn dogs, I'll never get back to sleep with this racket," he complained aloud to no one. He pulled on the black jeans he had worn earlier and headed for the door.

Moments later, Venice Place exploded.

~s&h~

At that moment, Starsky woke up in a sweat and saw a hand hurtling toward his face. Before he could scream or even move, the hand clamped down tightly over his nose and mouth then pushed his head down into the pillow. Peripherally to his right, Starsky caught sight of an operating room gown, but nothing else. His right arm was pinned down by what he thought was a knee. He tried to use his left arm to fight back but the pain and the sedation hampered him.

Next he was aware of something cold and sharp pressing against his neck an inch or so to the left of his Adam's apple. _Oh God, he's gonna cut my throat_! In his right ear, he heard a deep voice growl, "You are finally going to die, you stupid-fuck cop."

"Starsky!" The helpless detective recognized Jackson's voice. It startled his attacker, who, in turning to look, let up pressure on Starsky's arm and the knife left his throat.

Unconsciously summoning all the strength he possessed, Starsky rolled his body to the left. As he moved, the knife sliced into him from the inner right collarbone to his upper deltoid muscle.

Jackson charged the intruder without hesitation. He got to the man a second after Starsky's cut. He tried to fight like the detective had taught him, but his anger and frustration got in the way. The assassin sliced Jackson across the chest, then stabbed him in the abdomen. The young man slowly fell to the floor beside the bed.

The hitman jumped over Jackson and sped out of the room without looking back at Starsky. He bowled over a nurse who had just arrived outside the room. He was so furious about the hit going sour that he bent over and stabbed her as well. He was in the stairwell before the other night nurses made it to that end of the hall.

Starsky called out for Jackson. He didn't answer. With another great effort, he lunged out of bed, narrowly missing the boy's head. Their blood began to mix on the floor. Starsky knelt by his young friend and pressed on his abdomen with both hands to try to stem the bleeding. "Come on, Jackson, stay with me, ya hear? I need you, son. I love you. It's gonna be okay…" He faded, his last thought of Jackson, Sr. in the alley, not being able to help him either, just as he felt several hands touch his shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Phoenix and the Dragon:**

Part 3

3.1

Manuel Sanchez, a sanitation worker walking to work as he did every morning around 4 a.m., dropped the large ice chest he was carrying when he felt the earth tremble beneath him. _Earthquake!_ he thought until a millisecond later when the building across the street erupted in clouds of smoke and flame. The force of the blast made the 6-foot-8 inch, 285-pound man stagger backwards a few feet. His mouth dropped open as he saw a human projectile emerge, hit the street, and skid a few feet before coming to a stop a few yards from him. The bottom half of the man was on fire. "_Madre Dios_!"

The big Mexican picked up his ice chest and sprinted to the burning body. The man's back was covered with black char and ash, and his pants were engulfed in blue flames. Sanchez ripped off his denim jacket, then placed it over the flames. He patted and rubbed the man's legs for a few seconds. He quickly opened the chest, scooping out large handsful of ice. He carefully laid them on the man's back. Next, he opened the bottles of water he carried. As he began pouring the contents of the first one on the victim, a rusted-out Datsun coupe screeched to a stop several feet away. A young woman, clad in a skimpy t-shirt adorned with the words "Bernie's Bar & Girls" and short-shorts, jumped from the car screaming, "Omigod, omigod," over and over.

Sanchez reached for the second bottle and pulled his jacket of the victim's legs. "Call the cops, lady, call the fire department! Hurry!" He poured the water over the burned jeans and skin. He had to tell her twice more before she responded. She raced for the phone booth a half block up the street.

The call was unnecessary. Two patrolmen in a squad car about a mile away heard the explosion. They reached the scene just as the girl picked up the phone.

Wiley, the younger of the two officers, pulled frantically at the car's handle. "What a fuckin' mess!" he screamed. His face turned as red as his hair. His partner, Nelson, leaned against the steering wheel as he placed the radio call. "This is Oscar 2-4. We have an explosion and fire at 1027 and 1029 Abbott Kinney Boulevard. The structure is fully involved. We have one known victim. Send fire and rescue. Over and out."

"On the way, Oscar 2-4," came the reply. The dispatcher hurriedly activated fire and rescue. He turned to his supervisor who stood hovering over his shoulder. "Lieutenant, that's Sergeant Ken Hutchinson's address." This was not the first time police had to be dispatched to the detective's apartment.

"So it is," she said. "Hank, put a call into Captain Dobey. He should be on scene, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

People, still in their nightclothes, from neighboring homes and apartments began to gather across the street from the blaze. Wiley wasn't completely successful in keeping a few of the gawkers away from Sanchez and the victim. Those few who made it past the red-haired cop came offering blankets and assistance. Nelson accepted the blankets. Sanchez had used up all his water and asked for more. The helpers immediately took off to fulfill his request.

"That's Ken Hutchinson!" cried out a boy of about fifteen. The gathering crowd fell silent for a brief moment. The detective had become well-known, liked, and respected among his neighbors. Ethel Connors, an elderly woman who made it from one Social Security check to another because of his generosity with cash and food, began to weep uncontrollably; she had come to love Ken as a son. The boy pushed his way over to her and said reassuringly, "He'll be okay, Mrs. Connors. I'll take care of you for awhile."

Nelson knelt down by the victim's head. He bent and twisted until he got a good look at the partially obscured face. "Holy shit, it _is_ Hutchinson!" He swallowed hard before examining the man further. There was a long gash on the back of his head. It had bled quite a bit, but had clotted. It looked as if he had a second elbow in his left forearm. And from the meat of his left triceps muscle sprouted a ragged piece of wood. The water had washed off the soot and embers off his back, and there were big blisters forming. His legs and butt were simply obsidian black. Nelson thought, _I sure am glad I won't have to be the one to tell Starsky about this._

The sharp squeals of multiple sirens advanced on the crowd rapidly. Wiley found the paramedics and lead them to their only known patient. Nelson was still kneeling beside the fallen man. "Hey, do your best, fellas. He's one of ours." He stood and pulled Sanchez with him.

The paramedic carrying the portable oxygen and supplies rolled his eyes with great annoyance. "We always do our best."

"I don't fuckin' believe this, Chris," said the second paramedic who was kneeling at Hutchinson's head. "This is the partner of the cop we worked on in the police garage."

Hutchinson stirred ever so slightly. "Dogs…life," he muttered before becoming still again.

"Yeah, Mr. Cop, it _is_ a dog's life. Okay, Chris, on with the O2 and I'll do the ECG. Primary survey shows…"

~s&h~

The emergency room at Memorial Hospital was not especially busy at 4 a.m. Several street people were in being evaluated for various and sundry complaints. In the trauma room was a pedestrian victim of a hit-and-run driver. The nightbeat reporter from the local newspaper was busy gathering information on the accident from the police in attendance when the Code Blue to Room 413 was called. Then a second Code Blue was called, then Security as well. The reporter watched as one doctor, two nurses, and an orderly rushed to the main stairs.

"This is gonna be big, I can feel it!" he whispered excitedly.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, Officer. Check you later, okay?" He headed for the back stairs without hesitation. He opened the door and out rushed a man in a white scrub suit. The man pushed the reporter to the floor. The camera hung around his neck broke apart on impact with the floor, scattering pieces everywhere.

"Hey, come back here!" The reporter struggled to stand. _That's odd; he's got a _lot _blood all over his shoes._ "You owe me for this camera, fella!" He watched helplessly as the man jumped into the front seat of a battered red Mustang convertible. The car, lights off, pealed out of the ER parking lot. The reporter couldn't tell if there was even a license plate.

He sighed. When he bent down to pick up the pieces of his camera, he saw that he had a red handprint on his brand new pink shirt. _This is _really_ big!_ he thought as he took the back stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. _Goodbye, night shift, hello, day shift! Maybe I'll even get a Pulitzer._

~s&h~

Captain Dobey drove like a wild man –_Driving like Starsky now. That boy is a bad influence _– to Venice Place. When he first saw the fire from a distance, it was apparent that it was not under control. He increased his speed. _Hutchinson, you better be alive. If you aren't, I'll be arranging _two _funerals._

He careened to a stop beside one of the ambulances. He leaped out of the car and screamed, "Who's in charge here? Where's Hutchinson?"

Wiley ran up to the big black man. "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?"

Dobey bit back the reprimand he had planned for the officer. He couldn't expect every street cop to know him. He dug out his badge and flashed it. "Now, who's in charge and where can I find Hutchinson?"

"Oh, sorry, Captain. Uh, Captain Williams from the fire department is in charge overall. Officer Nelson is, was, the senior police officer here. Until now."

"Take me to Hutchinson NOW!"

The powerful, hard-charging personality of the captain overwhelmed the red-haired cop. His knees turned to molten liquid. He couldn't find his voice. The dark brown eyes bored holes into him, as the man waited for an answer. The young officer finally managed to point the way with a very shaky arm.

In seconds, Dobey was at Hutchinson's side. The detective was already strapped onto a stretcher, belly down. "Ken, I'm here. Everything's going to be all right." He looked to the two paramedics for confirmation. They both shrugged. Dobey offered a quick, silent prayer. "Is he ready to go to the hospital?" They both nodded. "Then what the hell are you doin' talkin' to me?"

The two paramedics wheeled their patient to the waiting ambulance. Dobey asked after them, "Where you taking him?"

"Mother of Mercy. Got a good burn team, and it's close."

"Okay. Get outta here." Dobey looked around until he saw what he wanted. "You, Officer Wiley," he shouted above the commotion. "Get your partner and follow this ambulance to Mother of Mercy. Detective Hutchinson is now under protective custody. If he is threatened again in any way, you better die tryin' to save him!"

Wiley managed to blurt out a "Yes, sir!" He gulped and yelled toward where he had last seen his partner. "Nnnnnelson!"

Dobey made his way back to his vehicle. He grabbed the radio microphone and called in. "This is Dobey."

"Captain, we've been trying to reach you. We just received a report from Memorial security that three people have been attacked and injured and one of them is…" The dispatcher hesitated, not wanting to break the news. "Cap, it's Starsky."

Dobey said nothing for a few moments while he rubbed his fuzzy hair with one of his beefy hands. "Listen up, dispatch. I want a crime scene team and an arson investigator out at Hutch's place _yesterday_. Crime team for Memorial. And I want Mother of Mercy and Memorial Hospitals to be crawlin' with uniformed cops inside two minutes! Then get me St…" Dobey stopped himself. _Shit, I was gonna ask for Starsky and Hutch to run this one. I'm getting' too old for this._ "Get me Bennett and Parson."

Dobey turned to stare at Venice Place. He could see the sky above getting lighter. Day was breaking, which meant this shitty night was coming to an end.

~s&h~

David Starsky first became aware of voices. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he could hear. Then he felt the hand smothering him again. He commanded his arms to move, to knock away the hand, but they would not respond, flopping like beached fish at his sides. Frustrated, he grunted and moaned.

"David, you're just waking up," said the recovery room nurse in a soothing tone. "We have an oxygen mask on you right now. When you're more awake, I'll take it off. You just had surgery."

Finally he realized he was in a heavily drugged state, again. _Oh, fuck! What does she mean, _surgery again_?_ He fought the clouds blocking entry into clear thought and memory. Then he remembered more than the hand. He remembered Jackson trying to save his life. He had to know. "My son?" he forced out through sore throat and dry mouth.

"Uh, I don't know what you're talking about, David."

"Sorry. _Like_ a son. Jackson Walters. Alive?" Starsky could feel himself start to hyperventilate.

"Oh, him! Yes, last I heard he was alive. They're still operating on him. Are you having any pain?"

With that question, he became aware of his body again. _Every fuckin' _cell _hurts like a sonuvabitch! What the hell do you_ think_?_ He calmed himself down. "No," he lied. "Thirsty." _Gotta keep my head clear_. He wanted to ask about Hutch, if he knew yet, but Starsky was back to sleep almost instantly.

~s&h~

Ken Hutchinson floated into consciousness and regretted it immediately. Everything was a blur except for the indescribable pain that assaulted him. He recognized the all-too-familiar agony from being burned. His left arm and shoulder throbbed with deep, stabbing, grinding pain. The rest of his body hurt just a bit less. He moaned before calling out, "Starsky!"

The ER nurse closest to him heard the plaintive wail full of need and anxiety in the two-syllable utterance. She choked on the tears it provoked as she grasped his right hand gently. "It'll be okay, sir."

Hutch became agitated. "Chloe, give him some more morphine, okay?" she asked her colleague.

The detective soon started to feel the effects of the narcotic. _Starsky, help me! I'm scared of that demon. I need you, buddy, where the hell are you!_ Then he slipped back into unconsciousness. The ER crew continued to work on the battered man.

~s&h~

Starsky awoke the next time to the sound of moaning. He forced his eyes open so he could identify the source of the sound. Every millimeter his head turned brought new meaning to the word "pain." He saw something or someone to his right. He blinked a few times and the image came into focus. "Jackson!" he croaked out with a combination of joy and sorrow – and guilt.

Jackson Walters, Jr. reclined in a bed just a few feet from his surrogate father. Above him hung several bottles of intravenous solutions and a partially empty bag of blood. An oxygen mask covered the young face. He had several blankets piled on him. Warming lights were in use as well. Two nurses were tending to him.

Starsky breathed a sigh of relief and thanks. The pain seemed to back off a notch. Then he began wondering why Hutch wasn't with him yet. Recovery rooms seldom had stood in his way before. He sensed something was wrong.

He became aware of a strong voice to his left. Continuing to watch Jackson and his nurses, he focussed on listening.

"…make sure I've got this straight. Hutchinson, spelled H-U-T-C-H-I-N-S-O-N, first name Kenneth. Transferring to our Burn Center…"

Starsky whipped his head to the left, simultaneously howling a guttural, agonized "NOOOOO! Huuuuuutch!" He had almost succeeded in climbing over the bed's side rails when several pairs of hands stopped him. He struggled against them mightily, surprising everyone with the strength of his resistance.

One voice: "David! Be still or you'll hurt yourself!" Another voice: "Dammit, will _somebody_ give him some sedation?" A third voice: "I'll get the diazepam!" Yet another voice: "Got the restraints."

Starsky didn't let up. He roared like a trapped lion when he felt the first restraint encase his wrist. "Don't! Gotta get to Hutch! No medicine! Hutch needs me! Gotta get to him!" He tried to talk more, but vocal cords failed him.

"Give him five milligrams IV! _Jesus_, this guy's a wild one. Isn't he supposed to be injured?"

Starsky felt the sedative begin its work. He silently cursed his doctors and nurses. They didn't understand. Hutch needed him, and he needed to be with Hutch. As he dove into drug-induced oblivion, he thought, _I'm sorry, Hutch. Will you forgive me?_

3.2

Later that morning, Captain Harold Dobey was doing his share of cursing. He paced as far as the telephone cord would allow him in the anteroom of the Memorial Hospital administrator's office. He and the police commissioner were in a shouting match.

"Harold, I don't have to tell you this is a disaster. Those clowns you call detectives are a hazard to our community! We've found at least two bodies at Venice Place. And a nurse is dead and an orderly gravely wounded. All because of these two cops. And that's just in the last 24 hours, Harold! Bay City can't afford them any more. As soon as it is feasible" – he purposely left out the word "politically" – "they are off the force. At least it won't be a problem getting rid of that maniac Starsky."

Dobey was livid and wasn't bashful in showing it. "May I remind you, _Commissioner_," he yelled, hoping his contempt came through, "that those detectives you call clowns are two of the most highly decorated police officers in the state! They've closed more cases, tough cases, than just about anybody else, _ever_. The streets are much safer because of them. Dammit, you _know_ that!"

"But…"

"But nothin', Cecil. They're targets because they're so good. And they keep getting beat up and shot and stabbed because they deal with ruthless scum that avoided the line for a conscience at birth. They're dedicated like I've never seen before. We can't afford _not_ to have them on the force!"

The commissioner sighed and collected his thoughts. He could see Dobey's points, but there were political consequences the captain of detectives failed to comprehend. "Okay, Harold, we're both a bit…upset right now. We'll talk more when things settle down some. Keep me posted."

"Sure. And know this, Commissioner. If you want Hutchinson and Starsky off the force, you'll have to fire 'em. No way will Hutch resign, and I guarantee you Starsky will fight automatic discharge to his dying breath. You can take that to the bank." He slammed the receiver down. _Goddamn political shit. _The secretary jumped several inches off her chair.

"Oh, sorry, Miss Winchell. Please excuse my behavior. Uh, would it be too much trouble…"

"The room is ready for you, Captain," Miss Winchell interrupted. "The administrator figured you would want to be back here, especially with _two_ officers hospitalized."

"Miss Winchell, you are wonderful." Dobey laughed at himself as he left the anteroom and headed for the recovery room. _I guess I can kiss my career goodbye, talking to the commissioner that way. Dammit, Starsky, how did I let you rub off on me like that? Why couldn't it be Hutch?_

Just as Dobey approached the elevator, the doors parted, revealing a very worried Huggy Bear. "What the hell's happenin', Captain? Word on the street is Hutch got hit this morning. Where is he? Is he okay?"

Dobey entered the car and pressed the button for the fifth floor. "Yeah, somebody blew up his apartment. Killed at least two people, but he survived. He's going to be fine. I had him transferred here so we could keep a closer eye on him."

Huggy nodded, but knew the real reason was so that Hutch and Starsky could be together. He gave the captain a can't-fool-me smirk.

Dobey continued, "It's so we don't use any more resources than necessary to protect him _and_ Starsky. You know, budgetary considerations." He harrumphed. "I'm going to the Burn Center now to check on him. Then I gotta give Starsky the news." By his expression, Huggy knew Dobey was dreading the task.

"Yeah, couldn't help but notice the ocean of dark blue swirlin' around this place. Anyhow, I came lookin' for you first. I didn't want to face Starsky not knowin' what had happened to his blond half. He's _gotta_ be suspicious by now that somethin' ain't right."

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open to reveal the fifth floor. "Guess you haven't heard."

"Heard what?" asked Huggy.

"There was another attempt on Starsky's life this morning at about the same time the hit on Hutch went down." Dobey paused while he waited for Huggy's mouth to quit dropping. "Cut him pretty bad. Stabbed that Walters boy, but he's still alive. Killed a nurse, though."

"Oh, man, it ain't easy being friends with those centurions in blue jeans."

"It ain't easy being their captain, either."

Hutchinson was still unconscious, but the nurse on duty told the two black men that he had woken briefly while in Mother of Mercy's ER and called out for Starsky. Dobey asked that he be paged as soon as there was any change in his man's condition.

"Come on, Huggy, let's go to the recovery room. I asked them to hold Starsky there until I could come see him. I understand they've had to keep him heavily sedated and tied down. Somehow, he heard about Hutch and keeps trying to climb out of bed."

Huggy shook his head. "I'm not surprised. You know what I'm sayin'?"

The captain grimly smiled his agreement and the two headed for the recovery room.

When the pair arrived, the recovery room was full of patients from the first round of surgeries for the day. They immediately identified David Starsky – he was the one in constant motion in a bed flanked by two orderlies tasked with keeping him from hurting himself.

Dobey stopped at the foot of the bed. "Starsky," he said harshly in his most commanding tone, "get it together, you hear me!"

The dark-haired detective looked toward the booming voice. It took a few moments for it to register that it belonged to his captain. "Cap, good you're here. Gotta help me get to Hutch. No more drugs. Get to Hutch." Dobey and Huggy had to strain to understand the soft, hoarse mutterings issuing from the drugged but still frantic Starsky.

"At ease, Starsky!" Dobey hoped the use of the military phrase would have some effect. It did; Starsky lay still for the first time in hours.

"Captain Dobey? Hello, I'm Dr. Andropoulos, anesthesia." The man in green scrubs clutched a chart to his chest. "I'm hoping you can help us. Mr. Starsky has been uncontrollable since the anesthetic wore off. We've been giving him as much as we dare in the way of narcotics and sedation, but he remains…dogged in his attempts to get to this Hutch person." He sighed and shrugged in defeat. "Tell me," he asked conspiratorially, leaning closer to Dobey, "what is he like without…without…uh, medication?"

"Doctor, you don't want to know. I'll talk with him. I can promise you he won't be a problem any longer." Dr. Andropoulos looked skeptical. Dobey pushed aside one of the orderlies and stood close to Starsky's head. "Now, listen to me, _Sergeant_ Starsky. You're still a cop, _my_ cop, even if you're in the hospital. I'm the captain, and you gotta do what I say, or it'll be days before you see your partner. You got that straight, Detective Sergeant Starsky?"

Starsky looked cowed and beat. Dobey smiled in triumph as he read a "Yes, sir," on the patient's lips. "That's more like it. And the doctors and nurses have my permission to knock you out any way they can, and I mean with or without drugs."

"Cap, how's Hutch?" There was still no sound with his words so Dobey was obliged to read Starsky's lips.

"Here's the story. Someone planted a bomb that went off at Hutch's place just when you were attacked. For some reason, Hutch was almost out of the building when it blew."

Starsky grinned to himself. _It's the dogs. Those damn barkin' dogs he's told me about. The dogs saved his life!_

The captain continued. "Anyway, most of his backside got burned, first- and second-degree. Concussion, scalp laceration, broken arm, puncture wound, some cracked ribs, road rash on his chest. He'll be okay. He'll probably be out before you will."

Huggy had worked his way to the opposite side of the bed. "Hey, my man, I'll look after your Blond Blintz till you mosey around. I'll fill him in on what happened to you."

"Don't!" Starsky forced out. "Don't tell him anything!" The act of yelling with sick vocal cords started him coughing violently. The ever-present pain escalated to new heights despite the morphine he had been given. One of the nurses rushed over and untied a wrist restraint before Huggy or Dobey could call out for help. She grabbed a pillow and held it firmly to his chest until the spasm left.

Starsky flopped back on the bed. "Don't tell." Again, his lips moved, but no sound.

"Okay, okay, my bro, your secret is safe with Huggy the Sphinx Bear. These lips will not sink your ship."

The nurse removed all the restraints. With great effort, Starsky stayed still. "Cap, where's Meredith?" he mouthed.

Dobey wanted to kick himself. Notifying the policewoman had slipped his mind as one of the many things he needed to do. Starsky could see the guilt and request for forgiveness on his captain's face.

~s&h~

Joan Meredith and her new partner had arranged that she would pick him up that day. After her shower, she had turned on her police band radio and remarked to herself that things seemed busy. It had taken a few minutes to get a coherent story from the chatter. As she realized what had happened, she had thrown on her clothes and weapon and headed for her car.

Meredith, badge hooked in the waistband of her slacks, had met no challenges from her fellow officers. She had spotted a friend from the police academy, who had filled her in on the early morning bombing. His partner had wandered over when he saw the two talking. He had volunteered the information he had just heard over the police captain's radio that Hutchinson had been transferred to Memorial under full escort.

The worried detective found herself stepping off the elevator on the fourth floor without memory of getting there. She had looked toward Starsky's room and almost fainted when she saw the crime scene tape cordoning off the room and surrounding area. Dolores, the head nurse, had seen her arrive and was there in time to steady her. She had helped Meredith into the staff room. Over a cup of coffee, Dolores had explained about the deep cut to Starsky's shoulder and arm and the need for surgical repair, about the slashing and stabbing of Jackson, and about the death of Angela, one of Starsky's favorite nurses.

When Starsky asked for her, Meredith was alone in the hospital's small, interdenominational chapel. She sat stiffly in a pew, staring at the backlit cross on the tiny altar. She was numb, except for the despair that nipped at her heart.

~s&h~

It was a beautiful summer day in Bay City, and the park was crowded. No one paid much attention to two men in a white Gremlin. As they watched preschoolers play on the park's jungle gym, they listened to their car radio and a police scanner. Without warning, the man behind in the driver's seat hit the ceiling of the car several times with his fist.

"Damn it all to hell! What the hell was Big Swede doing, taking an early morning stroll? 'In fair condition at a local hospital,'" he mimicked the announcer's voice. "And what the _fuck_ happened with Wild Thing, Mitch? All you had to do was cut the bastard's throat. In and out."

"Frankie, just drop it. You already know what happened. There's no sense in going over it again." Mitch mentally chastised himself one more time for letting his need to say something to the cop override his professional conduct.

"Well, we sure as hell won't be able to get close to those assholes for a long time. I suppose we're going to ground again?"

Mitch shook his head slowly. "No. We hide in plain sight. And we put our mole in Metro to work for us. Big Swede and Wild Thing's luck will run out soon enough."

3.3

The nightbeat reporter, Jimmy Gilmore, cringed when he heard the city editor bark for his story on the attacks at Memorial Hospital. So far, the "incident" had not been reported on television or radio. The police had put a tight lid on this, with a press conference scheduled for 4 p.m. The early edition of the evening paper hit the streets at 3.

_My first scoop!_ thought Jimmy as he ripped the paper out of the typewriter. The city editor was just a few feet away when Jimmy thrust the copy at him.

"About damn time," grumbled the editor. He quickly read the piece. He had to admit it was very good, and would be easy to incorporate into Alice's story on the explosion at Venice Place. "This is a really hot story, Jimmy. Cop partners getting hit in separate parts of the city at the same time, weeks after a previous attempt…Hey, where's the comments from the police about the Mustang?"

The reporter's stomach began to churn. "Uh, don't have any comments," he said softly.

"What the hell do you mean, no comments? Surely they said something after questioning you. Well?" The editor's face turned beet red and the vein in his forehead bulged and pulsated.

"Uh, I left without telling anybody that. I had to get back here and begin researching the vics and…"

"Jimmy," the editor screamed, "YOU ARE A FUCKIN' IDIOT! You've withheld potentially important information and we depend on the good graces of the police to get our stories!" The editor stopped to catch his breath. "Now get on that damned phone and call Metro. RIGHT NOW!"

The reporter looked up the number on his Rolodex and dialed shakily. "Could I speak to the detectives in charge of the Starsky case?"

~s&h~

Clive Bennett and Lance (short for Lancelot) Parson sat across from each other at their desks in Metro's detective squad. They had just come in from interviewing witnesses at Venice Place and were now reading the very thick file on this case starting with Lionel Rigger. The detective partners liked Starsky and Hutchinson despite their quirks, and respected their work. Reading the file, they came to understand why those two mavericks were so successful.

Clive Bennett, a tall, slender, brown-haired man in his late thirties, was a transplant from England. Born into wealth, he had no worries about money so he chose a profession that intrigued him. In a relatively short time, he had made inspector at Scotland Yard. But he met and fell in love with an American woman who owned her own business. He moved to be with her, they married, and he had adopted the Southern California lifestyle with glee. It always freaked people out when they heard formal English spoken in a proper British accent coming out of a man who looked like a surfer dude.

Lance Parson had just turned 30, the son of a black and American Indian man and French Creole woman. He wore his jet-black, tightly curly hair very short, and his skin color and accent defied description. Originally from the bayous of Louisiana, he moved to BC for a change. He became a street cop, but applied for detective after his only partner to that time was killed during a "routine" traffic stop.

The phone on Bennett's desk rang. "Detective Bennett here." Lance stopped his perusal of the file to listen to his partner's side of the conversation. "Yes, I am one of the detectives in charge of investigating the assaults on Detective Starsky." He reached for a pencil and pad of paper. "Please proceed, Mr. Gilmore." Long pause. "Did you get a good look at the gentleman?" Another long pause. "Did you happen to get a view of the license plate?" Pause, shorter this time. "Anything else you could possibly tell me about the automobile?" Pause. "No, sir, I don't think we will be pressing charges" – Bennett grinned at Parson – "this time, but do be sure to tell us what you know in a more timely fashion should you ever witness what may be a crime. Would it be convenient for you to come to the station now to look at mug books?" A brief pause. "Excellent. You may ask for me or my partner, Detective Lance Parson. Should we not be present, there are other police officers who can assist you. Thank you so much. See you soon." He took the receiver from his ear and broke the connection manually.

Parson looked at his partner expectantly. "Lancelot, my good man, I believe we may have the first break in this case." Bennett dialed dispatch and placed an APB on a red 1968 Mustang convertible "in poor repair."

"Far out, dude!" exclaimed Parson. "May the players begin to fall!"

They turned to face the sound of the doors to the room open. Minnie Kaplan escorted a short, old man with a fringe of long, gray, dirty hair into the room. His hands were thrust deep inside the pockets of his dark brown overcoat.

"Detectives Parson, Bennett, this is Wailin' Willie, one of Hutch's snitches. He says he may have something you can use. Okay, sweetie," she addressed the derelict, "you can talk to these guys. They'll treat you right."

"Hey there, pops," said Parson as he pulled a chair close to the desk. "Have a sit and let's chew the fat. Why they call you 'Wailin' Willie,' anyhoo?"

"Because I sing country western songs for a livin'. Make a pretty good one at it, too."

"So, dude, what you got fer us?"

"Well, I heard these two guys at Shirley's a coupla nights ago, sayin' somethin' 'bout Big Swede and Wild Thing enjoyin' a last night together. I didn't have no idea who or what they meant. But then I hears about Hutch – he's a good man, you know. Always treats me nice. Likes my singin', too. Always asks for 'Rawhide.'"

"Sure, pops, I get the picture. So you hear 'bout Hutch and…" Parson prompted the old man.

"Oh, yeah, I hear that Hutch has been blowed up. Well, I got to thinkin' he could be Big Swede. And his partner, that Starkey…"

"Star_sky_," corrected Bennett.

"Yeah, like I said, Starkey could be Wild Thing. So I hitch a ride here to tell somebody. I won't use the phone. The phone police are always listenin' in and you can't have a private conversation, you know."

Parson and Bennett exchanged congratulatory glances. The case was opening like a rose in full bloom. "You wouldn't happen to be able to describe these two _gentlemen_ or know where they are residing, would you, Mr. Willie?"

"I seen 'em around the neighborhood. I think they might be at the St. Francis Hotel. Hey, mister, you ain't from around here, are you?"

3.4

Starsky, to his credit, behaved like a model patient and was discharged from the recovery room a half-hour later to his new room on the fifth floor. Though his ward was at the opposite end of the building from the Burn Center, it was at least on the same floor.

Huggy helped him get settled in. They didn't speak. Starsky had withdrawn, worried sick about Hutch and about the missing Meredith. He felt responsible for the attack on Jackson and Angela's death. Plus, he had to contend with three uniforms outside his room. _Yeah, like these three cops can stop a determined killer._

He couldn't fight the need for sleep any longer, and battling the unremitting massive pain left him exhausted. Though he hated himself for it, because he knew he should be with his partner, he gave in to sleep as soon as his day nurse finished checking him in and capping off his IV.

Three hours later, a nightmare woke him. He bolted upright in bed and loosed a coarse yelp of torment. The sudden movement jolted the dozing thin black man awake. "What is it, Starsky? Bad dream?"

"Yeah," he croaked softly in response. "Gotta see Hutch. Saw him on fire. Even comin' outta his nose 'n' mouth. Gotta see him now." He started to climb over the side rails.

"Hey, wait just a New York minute, m'man. I'll get one of them rolling chairs for you." Huggy had a hard time trying to keep Starsky from progressing further.

"No, no time. Get my canes."

Huggy searched the small room and the closet but didn't turn up one cane, much less two. "I think they may have gotten left in the old room, Starsk."

"Don't matter. Don't know why I need them fuckin' canes anyway. My legs weren't shot up. Get these rails down, Hug."

"Barbara says you need 'em for balance. A tumble could be quite serious for you at this stage, my friend, you hear what I'm sayin'?"

"I hear ya. Now just get me outta this bed and to Hutch. Tha's all I want."

Starsky's pitiful look torpedoed Huggy's good sense. He lowered the side rails and helped his friend stand. He held on while Starsky swayed. Starsky then batted his hands away and took two steps.

And promptly fell. He felt something pop then burn in his right shoulder. He curled into a ball and rocked in hopes that the pain, which he didn't think could possibly increase but did, would lessen.

Huggy called out, "Hey, I could use some help in here!" Two of the uniformed police officers rushed in, drawing their guns. "Put those things away! Ain't this man got enough freakin' holes? Help me put him back to bed, okay, fellas?"

"No, Huggy," Starsky insisted through gritted teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Get me to Hutch. Then I'll rest, promise."

"Again with the puppy dog eyes. All right, already. But ya gotta let me roll you down there." Starsky nodded his assent to Huggy's demand. "Thanks, good people, but your assistance is no longer required. Huggy Bear has the matter in hand. Unless one of you would like to find a wheelchair for our determined and hardheaded patient?"

~s&h~

Hutchinson awoke to the sound of a woman's voice asking if he was in there. _In where?_ he thought groggily. Then his total body pain reminded him that something had happened. All he could remember was hearing the dogs bark, and wondering where Starsky was because he needed him, and trying to deny the sweet effects of the morphine.

Dryly, he replied, "I'm here, if here is hell."

"No, it isn't hell. But close. You're in Memorial's Burn Center." She told him the story of the explosion and enumerated his injuries. "How bad are you hurting now? I'll get you some morphine."

"NO, please don't. Pain's tolerable," he lied. "Could I have some ice or water? But first, my partner."

"Ask and you shall receive, my son," said Huggy Bear as he wheeled Starsky into the room with him. "The prodigal partner returns. Well, that's not exactly right, but you get my drift."

"Hiya, babe, how ya doin'?" Starsky whispered as he gave his friend/partner/brother his widest available grin. "Sorry I'm late. Forgive me?"

"Oh, buddy, nothing to forgive." Hutch wasn't about to tell him of the betrayal and panic he felt when Starsky wasn't with him earlier, since Starsky couldn't possibly have been with him then. _Sometimes you're so damned selfish. How could you forget your partner __was in the hospital?_ "You're here now. Geez, did you have a relapse? You look terrible." The fears he had about the morphine would have to wait now.

Hutch was right. Starsky was pale and sweaty, with dark circles under his eyes and a posture that screamed pain. Huggy helped him to a very uncomfortable-looking chair the nurse had placed close to Hutch's bed. "You don't look so terrific yourself, buddy boy. Or should I call you 'the mummy'?"

Starsky was right. Hutch, lying on his right side, back supported by pillows, was swathed almost head to toe in white. The gauze turban he wore covered most of his bloodied and dirtied blond locks. His left arm was in a plaster cast to just above his elbow, and the white gauze on his upper arm was stained with blood. He was definitely paler than usual and dark circles completely surrounded his tired, pained eyes. "Don't we look like somethin' the cat drug in?" asked Starsky.

Hutch laughed through his nose. "No self-respecting cat would drag the likes of us anywhere but the litter box."

"Speak for yourself. God, Hutch, I've been worried sick. I tried to get here sooner, but…"

"Starsk, I understand. You can't be with me constantly. I know you try to be when I'm hurting, but be realistic, okay? You're still in pretty rough shape. Not to change the subject, Gordo, but the voice. What happened? I can barely hear you."

"Oh, just a minor setback. Guess I talked too much. I'll be okay in a day or two." _God, please don't let him notice this bulge on my shoulder._ "I'm here for you, babe, I ain't gonna leave you until you go home. Or wherever. I mean, until you're discharged. Oh, shit, Hutch, I'm sorry. You just lost everything and…"

"Starsky, I didn't lose anything important. I still got the one thing that is important - you." Hutch reached for his partner the best he could with his right hand. Starsky smiled his thanks and, with a little help from Huggy, took his partner's hand with his left. A minute later, the partners were asleep.

Huggy stood with arms crossed over his chest, watching his two friends. He sat on the floor, propping his back against Hutch's bed and stretching his legs in front of Starsky, so that the three now formed a closed triangle of sorts. "No one can ever say you two are superior conversationalists, or particularly friendly or understandin', but you are two righteous dudes and I'd walk in space without a helmet for you. Sleep well, my beauties." He closed his eyes and joined them.

3.5

Meredith had caught up with Captain Dobey in his hospital command center. He immediately assigned her to work with Bennett and Parson. The two in turn assigned her to begin questioning the supervisors of every department. It was early afternoon when she found out that Ernie Michaelson had punched in a few minutes before 11 the previous night but had not punched out.

Her intuition told her this was very important and shouldn't waste time trying to track down the night supervisor and other night personnel. She put a call in to Bennett, but was told he and Parson, along with back-up, were running down a lead at the St. Francis. So she took her information to Dobey, who was easily able to get a search warrant for Michaelson's locker (there were many sympathetic judges that day). She had the crime scene team with her so they could properly gather evidence.

The locker was empty and wiped clean. Meredith knew they had Starsky's attacker but was furious there was no evidence. "Give it one more try, would you please, Charlie?"

"Sure thing, Detective." Charlie went back to work. Five minutes later, he said with caution, "I think I have a partial print here. Probably a pinkie." Meredith grinned widely.

~s&h~

Bennett and Parson found two empty rooms at the St. Francis. The clerk said the two men had moved out the night before and had left the place very clean. "Even washed the friggin' walls, they did. Rooms're just like they left 'em. Night clerk wudn't gonna waste his time cleaning again." Parson instructed the crime team to search for evidence anyway.

~s&h~

Jimmy Gilmore and Wailin' Willie looked through mug book after mug book. Sayers, a detective on desk duty because his partner was out with appendicitis, encouraged and cajoled and watched the two men closely for any possible signs of recognition on their faces. When Willie began to shake, Sayers sent Minnie out for a bottle of fortified wine for their "guest." But after several hours, the two men found nothing but agreed on one thing: the men they saw were white, of average build and weight, with brown hair. Only Willie was positive he would recognize the men if he saw them again.

_That's great, _thought Sayers. _We got a wino witness. The captain's gonna love this one._

~s&h~

The fingerprint Charlie found in Michaelson's locker was actually a full one of the right fifth finger. Dobey had two uniforms take it directly to Print ID at BCPD headquarters, with instructions to check the print against the records of servicemen in their thirties first. They got a 10-point match inside an hour.

Wilma Faludi called Dobey with the good news. "Your print, Cap, belongs to a Navy SEAL, name of Horace Harvey Mitchell. I'll get Minnie working on getting more information."

"Thanks, Wilma. Good work. I owe you one. And I'll handle it from here." He hung up, found the number he wanted in his Rolodex, and dialed it. "May I speak with Colonel Johnson, please. Harold Dobey, Bay City Police calling. This is important. No, it's _very_ important."

~s&h~

The two men in Metro Division's Internal Affairs office were closing up shop when one of the phones rang.

"It's mine." The tall, well-built black man picked up the receiver. "IA, Officer Dryden speaking."

"You alone, Dryden?"

The officer looked at his partner, a smaller, wiry white man named Simonetti, and mouthed "Personal." Simonetti nodded and quickly left the office.

"Yeah, I am now. How did you fuck up again, Frankie?"

"So sue me, you prick. Call the service when they're discharged and you know where they'll be. We'll call back in the usual manner." _Fuckin' cop, betraying his own._

"You got it. 100 Gs wired to the same account as before and no bullshit – I know you can't afford not to pay it. And don't miss this time." He hung up the phone. _The only thing good about you not being dead yet, Starsky, is that you've really suffered and now have to watch Hutchinson suffer. You should've never humiliated me. Now I get payback with Hutchinson as a bonus. Just wish you knew it was me helping out._

3.6

Starsky woke with a start and a gasp. "Hutch," he whispered excitedly, "Hutch, wake up!" He squeezed and shook the hand he held.

"Wha…what's going on? What is it, Starsk?" Hutch could hear the familiar excitement that his partner got when he had solved a piece of a puzzle.

"The hands! I remember where I seen those hands before." _Yeah, I remember those hands and three bullets doin' a demolition derby in my chest and another clippin' my gut and lodgin' in my liver._

"What hands? Starsk, you're not making any sense. Good God, Starsky, you're bleeding!" Hutch's heart almost beat its way out of his chest when he saw the large bloody stain covering the right side of Starsky's hospital gown.

"Those hands are _Ernie's_ hands. But I seen 'em before that!" Starsky stared past Hutch, as if conjuring an image.

"Will you _stop_ already about the hands? Why are you bleeding? Huggy, you still here? NURSE!"

"I'm here, Blondie," Huggy grumped. "Be quiet. You're soundin' like your Captain Bligh, if you know what I mean. What's going on?"

"Hutch, listen to me. Ernie's hands were on the steering wheel."

"_What_ steering wheel? NURSE! Where the hell is she? Starsk, are you nuts?" He paused while the gears in his head reached maximum revolutions. "The steering wheel of _that_ squad car. Are you telling me 'Ernie' was the…"

"Driver," Starsky finished. "That's what I've been tryin' to tell you, Blintz. And it was his hand that tried to suffocate me this morning. Now we know what one of 'em looks like! Geez, you can be slow, you know that?"

"For crying out loud, Starsky, you can really push my buttons sometimes, you know _that_?"

A nurse, accompanied by an orderly, rushed in. Two uniforms followed close behind. "What is it?" she asked breathlessly.

"My partner here is bleeding and he needs help! Get a doctor NOW!"

"It's _adios_ for me, dear detectives. I can't take you two rowdy ruffians any more today. You're wearin' me _out_, I tell you. I'm goin' to my bar where I can get some peace and quiet." Huggy strolled out of the room. He was followed closely by the uniformed cops, as they had realized their expertise was not required.

Starsky peered down at his chest. Now he knew what the pop and burn had meant. "Hutch, it's nothin'. Cut myself shavin'?"

"You're not only nuts, you're certifiably nuts. Now why would _you_ think that _I_ would think you'd shave your chest hair? And what's this about Ernie trying to suffocate you? And where the hell is the doctor? My friend is bleeding to death here!"

"Please, Mr. Hutchinson, calm down. The orderly went for him." Using a towel, she pressed down firmly on Starsky's shoulder, causing him to squirm and grimace with pain.

"It's nothin', Hutch. Just popped a few stitches, maybe. I'm fine, really."

"What the hell are you doing with new stitches?" Hutch stifled the urge to throttle his partner. And he dreaded hearing the reason for the new wound.

"Well, while you were getting yourself blown up, Ernie was tryin' to cut my throat. He missed. Jackson scared him off, but he cut and stabbed him, Hutch." Hutch felt something catch in his own throat as he saw a miserable sadness creep over his friend's face. "He saved my life. He's in ICU right now. Then Ernie killed _Angela_, Hutch. The stinkin' sonuvabitch killed my _Angela_. This shit happened to them because-a me." Starsky couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand in sympathy. "Oh God, Starsk, when were you going to tell me about this third attempt?" He paused to control the shakiness he knew was in his voice. "It's my fault that this happened to you and Angela and Jackson, not yours. I'm so sorry. It's _all_ my fault. I let my guard down, got complacent. This should never have happened. Can you ever forgive me, buddy?" _How can I call myself a cop? How could I not have insisted on maintaining protection for him? _And_ me? Starsky deserves better than this._ The pain escalated in his body along with the guilt and shame he felt.

Starsky was quiet for a few seconds. "Whaddya mean, 'third attempt'? You mean they tried a _second_ time and nobody thought to tell me about it?" He felt his anger rising. "Why didn't you _tell_ me? Don't you think I have a right to know? If I'd'a known about the second one, maybe I could have been more alert for the _third_ one. For Pete's sake, Hutch, what were you _thinkin_g?"

The nurse released the pressure on Starsky's wound and took a few steps back. She was enthralled with the drama unfolding before her eyes and ears. _This is better than any soap opera_, she thought.

Hutch's heart bled at the sound of betrayal and disappointment he heard in Starsky's voice. "I made a _big_ mistake, Starsky, one that almost cost the most important person in the world to me his life, and changed forever the life of a young man dear to him and me. And I am responsible for the death of another. I'll have to carry this forever. And I don't blame you if you won't or can't forgive me. I certainly don't think I'll ever forgive myself." Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply.

Starsky sank back into the chair. He felt burned up inside, tired beyond imagination, and deeply bone-weary of the pain that seldom seemed to abate just a little. "Hutch, of course I forgive you, babe. How can I not? You're my best friend ever. You're human, and humans make mistakes. God knows _I've_ blown it a few thousand times."

Hutch slowly opened his eyes and looked intensely into his partner's. Seeing the forgiveness and compassion in them, Hutch felt the first inkling of his own forgiveness. He smiled at Starsky, and for the first time in weeks, the smile truly extended to his sky-blue eyes.

The nurse was crying openly when the doctor barged in without knocking. "What's going on here? David, are you bleeding again? Popped some stitches, I bet. How'd it happen?"

"I fell," Starsky responded meekly. Hutch started to laugh. He was enjoying seeing his partner, who was rarely anything but assertive, in this state.

"Nurse…"

"Reynolds, Doctor." She wiped her eyes and sniffed as she regained her professional demeanor.

"Nurse Reynolds, let's work on getting David back to his room and…"

"Oh no, you don't!" Starsky "asserted" himself. _There goes his temper_, chuckled Hutch to himself. "I'm not movin' from here. My partner's hurt and needs me. You can do what you gotta do right here. If you try to move me, well, I won't be held responsible if you become a patient in your own hospital."

The physician looked to Hutch for his help and support. Hutch shrugged and said, "I can't do anything with him when he's like this, Doc. If I were you, I'd do what he wants."

The doctor growled. "All right, we'll do it your way, David. Your acting this way shouldn't surprise me, considering everything that's occurred since you became my patient. Nurse Reynolds, I'll need two pairs of sterile gloves, size 8, and…"

The detectives tuned out doctor and nurse and turned their attention to each other. Starsky almost gasped when he saw what he thought were blue flames shimmering in Hutch's eyes. "We have to call Dobey about this Michaelson creep. Starsky, I give you my word that I'm going to get the bastards who have done this to you. Just like I got that piss-ant Gunther. My gift to you, buddy. Nobody gets to you again."

3.7

David Starsky sported a fresh bulky dressing over his right upper chest. Three stitches had popped open but the surgeon replaced them with more sutures rather than closing the wound with butterfly tape. "Against usual practice standards, David, but knowing you, the butterflies won't be enough." "Butterflies oughta be free, anyway, Doc. Shouldn't try to keep 'em under wraps."

What followed was an intense negotiation session involving the detectives, Starsky's doctor, Hutch's doctor, and the charge nurses from the Burn Center and 5th floor ward. Starsky agreed to spend the night in his room but he could stay with Hutch in between PT and psychologist visits. He also agreed to take one pain pill every four hours during the day. In exchange for that concession, he didn't have to take a sleeping pill. Hutch would take a non-narcotic analgesic on a regular basis and a muscle relaxant when he needed. In return, he would not receive any more morphine, regardless of how much he hurt or begged for it. Instead, Starsky and the nurses would work with him on alternative methods of pain control. And Nurse Reynolds had found Starsky a much more comfortable reclining chair to use.

They were dozing after their evening meal when Dobey, Meredith, Parson, and Bennett stormed in the room. Dobey carried a file folder that was several inches thick.

"Hey, you two, wake up. We got some news for you."

"Yeah, Cap, what is it? You catch that slicer and dicer Michaelson?" Starsky said matter-of-factly. He stared at Meredith, and she at him. Those piercing, accusing dark blue eyes quickly made her feel uncomfortable and she focussed on Dobey. The interaction was not lost on Hutchinson.

"No, but we're making real progress. Found a few things out about this Ernest Michaelson fellow. With the help of a friend of mine at the Presidio, I got his military records. Ernie is really Horace Harvey Mitchell, age 35. Decorated Navy SEAL, served in Vietnam, then nothing else but a death certificate soon after his discharge. That started me thinkin', so I contacted another friend I have in the CIA." Dobey allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. "Thought Mitchell might have been recruited by the Company. Seems I was right. He left CIA a few years ago. They have every reason to believe he is using his skills as a mercenary. My contact couldn't come up with a probable for a partner, so he sent me this." He fished out a thick document and tossed it to Hutchinson. Starsky, who had turned his eyes to Dobey when Meredith broke contact, began studying his feet.

Dobey continued as Hutch paged through the document with his one usable hand. "Got this by that new-fangled facsimile machine. He sent me this list of military personnel that served combat tours in 'Nam, thinking it might help us out in id'ing the partner. He really went out on a limb for us. Anyway, this was CIA's wish list of recruits. Makes for interesting reading. Anything you want to say, Starsky?" The captain was careful to keep his tone even and non-judgmental.

Hutchinson looked in shock and disbelief at Dobey, then at Starsky. "Is there something you want to tell me, buddy? Is your name in here?"

The dark-haired detective continued to contemplate his feet. "Cap, I don't see what this has to do with anything, much less this case. Besides, it's ancient history."

"It might have something to do with this case, Starsky. We're only looking at names of possible recruits who were in-country during Mitchell's tour. You're one of them. You might even know him. This might not be just about Gunther any more, son. All of us here are well-aware of your tendency to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat."

Hutch was persistent. "Starsky, you haven't answered my questions."

"Cap, I was in th' Army. Mitchell was Navy. About the only time one had anything to do with the other was on a Saturday during football season. And I didn't make any enemies over there."

"Don't ignore me, Starsky. I'm your partner. We all know the CIA recruited only combat vets who were the best ki…" The blond man choked on the word. He could taste bile in his throat. He couldn't imagine his partner, his friend, who cared for him so gently when he was sick or injured, who cared so much about people, being a cold-blooded killer. _I thought I knew him!_

Starsky finally pulled his eyes from his feet and looked at Dobey square on. "Look, Cap'n," he said, arms and hands gesturing more than before to emphasize his point, "I was good at my job, which was stayin' alive and keepin' the rest of my squad alive, too. Toward the end of my tour, some turkey approached me. I told him no way, leave me alone, and go piss into the wind." He sighed and bowed his head. When he raised his head again, he looked at only Hutch. "I said I had made a few thousand mistakes. Hookin' up with the CIA wudn't one of them. And neither was fighting for my country and coming home alive with a clear conscience."

Starsky watched with relief as Hutch's expression changed from fear and loathing to understanding and unconditional acceptance. Hutch laughed self-consciously. "Captain Dobey, why don't we get on with it? I think we've gone down enough blind alleys for the evening." Starsky flashed his partner a look of gratitude.

Bennett, Parson, and Meredith recited what had occurred to open the case. Mitchell's picture was in the hands of every peace officer in the city and county. The APB on the Mustang was also still in effect.

"We're gonna find these turkeys soon and bring 'em in," said Dobey with confidence. "It's almost over, boys."

"Cap, I want my weapon."

"Starsky, I think you've gone over the edge. You've been wounded, you're in the hospital. You have your own personal guards right outside your door at all times. You don't need a weapon. The answer is no."

"But…"

"Starsky, I don't want a heavily medicated man wielding a gun around me. I don't especially relish a bullet in my butt." Hutch was adamant.

"I don't know about that. Your tush could stand some home improvement."

Dobey's "Starsky!" cut off Hutch's comeback. "Quit foolin' around. No gun, and that's final!"

"Look, Cap'n, it's my life. And my partner's. I'm not takin' that much pain medicine any more. These guys are professionals, even though they have made mistakes. We know that one of them was a SEAL, and those guys are lethal. And we know they're ruthless, or Angela wouldn't be dead. Finally, we know they're determined. They've come after me 'n' Hutch _three_ times already, and I don't think they're gonna stop. It's very possible that they could make it past our bodyguards. I don't want to be caught naked. I wanna put up a fight. I want a chance." Starsky tried to look persuasive.

"Captain, I think Starsky's right," chimed in Hutchinson. "And I want my weapon, too." Dobey caught the burning in Hutch's eyes.

The room was quietly tense for a few moments. The five detectives could see Dobey weighing all the options, reviewing the pros and the cons, deciding. "All right, you'll have 'em in the morning. Well, at least you will, Starsky. Hutchinson, I assume yours was in your apartment?"

"Yes, it was. Guess I'll need a new one."

"Meredith, you'll take care of that and see that Starsky gets his first thing in the morning."

"Thanks, Captain. You know that expression: 'It ain't over until the fat lady sings.' I don't think she's even entered the opera house."

"Yeah, she's as quiet as a church mouse." Starsky leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "If that's all, Cap'n, I'd appreciate some quiet time. I'm really tuckered out."

Meredith felt the figurative knife stab her deeply in the heart and turn. _He's shut me out, and damn if I don't deserve it._

"Bennett and Parson'll be in mid-morning to officially take your statements. Now, get some sleep. That's an order."

~s&h~

The seed of the plan for exterminating the two detective sergeants was just beginning to sprout in Horace Harvey Mitchell's brain. This time, he was determined not to make mistakes. He would make those two cops die horrible deaths not only to repair his professional reputation, but also his personal pride. He was a twice-wounded tiger now, fighting for his survival. And he knew that there was nothing as vicious and dangerous as a wounded tiger.

He laughed with diabolical unscrupulousness as he visualized a double police funeral. _You're dead, Big Swede and Wild Thing. You just don't know it yet._


	4. Chapter 4

**The Phoenix and the Dragon:**

Part 4

4.1

It wasn't just the incessant pain from the burns and arm and chest that kept the blond detective awake. It was learning a disturbing secret about his closest friend and partner, and it was his own concealment of a secret he had never told anyone, he was so ashamed of it.

Hutchinson could remember all too clearly that day he registered for law school at the University of Wisconsin. Law school had beat out medical school by a toss of a coin. _I had to use a dumb fucking quarter to direct my life. God, was I a loser._ While he stood in line, two men in suits had approached him and offered him lunch for a few minutes of his time. Intrigued and never one to pass up a free meal, he had accepted.

As the three men ate burgers and drank beer at a nearby tavern, the "suits" had revealed their agenda. They were FBI agents, recruiting people to infiltrate and inform on student activist groups involved in protesting the war and other radical activities. When Hutchinson asked why he had been chosen, they quickly specified his own protest activity in undergraduate school, his ability to earn the trust of others, and his excellent academic record. "After law school, there will be a career for you in the FBI," he had been assured.

Hutchinson had politely told the two men "no" and thanked them for the meal, leaving without finishing. Hours later, he had found himself sitting on a bench in a small park on a lake bordering the campus, not remembering how he had gotten there. He had wondered what they had seen in his character. What had they seen to think he would be willing to rat on the people who believed as strongly as he did about the unjust war in Vietnam?

He recalled feeling dirty, untrustworthy, and inadequate, without integrity. He recalled hating and doubting himself that afternoon. He recalled marching into the registrar's office the next morning and withdrawing from the university. He laughed when he remembered how he made the spur-of-the-moment decision to become a policeman, even though it was something he had considered doing for years. And how he had pulled out a map, closed his eyes, and picked out Bay City with his index finger. He sighed when he remembered how right the decision had felt then. Now, the decision didn't seem right at all.

Hutchinson resolved to convince his nurse to discontinue his IV and to visit Starsky in his own room before day shift started. _Time to act, not react._

~s&h~

Joan Meredith acknowledged the three officers protecting Starsky. She tapped on the door lightly, then pushed in open. She inhaled sharply when she saw Starsky on his bed. He looked so innocent, so old, so tired, so handsome, so ragged in unguarded sleep. She loved him even more now, but feared she had lost him.

She tiptoed to his bedside and stroked his curly, dark hair. Before she was finished with the first stroke, he woke and lashed out at her. She staggered back from the glancing blow from his left hand. She stared at him with shock and disbelief. It was a few moments before she realized his striking out was purely defensive.

"Starsky, I'm sorry, I should've said something first." She had to wait a few more moments for his apology.

"Sorry, Meredith, guess I'm a little touchy." Starsky avoided direct eye contact. "Got my gun?"

Hutch arrived outside the room, accompanied by two of the officers assigned to him. He could hear their voices through the door. After seeing what had passed between his partners the previous night, he whispered to all five policemen to back away. He leaned heavily against the wall and strained to hear the conversation within.

Meredith opened the large straw bag she had slung over her shoulder. She withdrew the Smith & Wesson, nestled in its customary holster, an empty waist holster, and several magazines. Gently she placed them on the overbed table. "As ordered by Captain Dobey. I cleaned and oiled it last night." Her tone was friendly but cautious.

"Thanks," Starsky said flatly.

Meredith took a deep breath and plunged in, "Starsky, I'm so sorry about yesterday. I should have been here to see you and Hutch as soon as I heard, but…"

"But what, Meredith?" Hutch cringed as he heard the sudden anger in Starsky's raspy voice. "Hutch is your partner. You shoulda been with him as soon as you found out. That's what partners _do_, dammit! You gotta be there for each other! And me? Hell, I thought you _loved_ me, but maybe it's just fuckin' pity and obligation. Like you can't dump this…this…worthless cripple yet." He stopped the tirade abruptly and let several seconds elapse. He swallowed hard, hoping he could control his rage. But he couldn't control the cold tears that oozed into his eyes. "Just leave, Meredith. You've done your social work duty." He turned his back to her.

"David," – his head snapped back to look at her for an instant; she had never called him by his first name – "please let me explain."

"Leave, please. There ain't nothin' to explain."

Meredith was determined not to let Starsky know she was close to breaking down. She whirled and rapidly walked out of the room. She ran right into Hutch, almost toppling him. He stared at the glistening dark brown of her eyes. He saw her plea for forgiveness. Taking her strong chin in his hand, he held her head steady while he brushed his lips against her cheek. He smiled his forgiveness. "He'll come around."

She pulled away, tucked her chin to her chest, and rushed away from the small crowd outside her beloved's room.

Hutch hung his head in morose sadness. So much was changing and out of control. He feared the changes would be permanent, that Starsky would be forever moody and angry, that he himself would yield to the strong pull of the pessimistic, depressive side of his nature without Starsky's eternal optimism and child-like enthusiasm to help him achieve something close to a balance. _Act, don't react_, he reminded himself.

He entered Starsky's room without knocking. Starsky turned to the shuffling he heard and saw Hutch, stoop-shouldered, still swathed in white except for loose-fitting green scrub pants and a light blue sling. His complexion matched his bandages. Starsky said in alarmed concern, "What the hell are you doin' here? You should be in bed! Sit down!"

Hutch made it to the chair close to Starsky's bed and very carefully sat down. He grimaced and hissed in pain – sitting was proving to be difficult at best. "Starsk, we have to talk."

"Later. It's 6 a'clock in the mornin' and I haven't had breakfast yet." The strong face scowled.

Hutch pointed his finger at him. "Listen to me, Starsk. We need to get some things straight. If you don't want to talk, that's fine. But you _will_ listen." The curly-haired detective continued to sulk, to build an invisible wall between them, but Hutch could tell he was listening. "Meredith loves you, and if you don't know that, you're a bigger fool than I am. And she deserves better than what you just gave her. She's never really had a partner long enough to know what to do. The academy just can't teach that. Don't you remember that it took _us_ awhile to become _real_ partners? Starsk, I can't let you blow something this good. Talk with her. Besides, you can't expect something from her that you haven't done. Unless you've gone to see Jackson in the middle of the night." He paused, hoping Starsky would respond in some way.

_Dammit, Hutch! Fuck you! I _can't_ see him yet, don't you know that? He almost died because-a me! I _hate_ it when you're right!_

Nothing changed, so Hutch continued. "You can't blame yourself for what happened to Angela and Jackson. I know you do, deep down. The bad guys hurt them, but it was because of me, not you. We've gone over this before. I know it seems that so many of the people you care most about in life are taken in some way from you too soon. But you didn't cause them to leave you, or die, or get hurt."

This time the big blond paused for himself, to silently acknowledge again his own guilt in Angela's death and Jackson's wounding.

Starsky cleared his throat. He spoke very quietly but still didn't look at his friend. "Well, then, Hutch, it seems to me that you can't blame yourself, either. If I can't blame myself for Terry's death or for Angela's, _you_ can't do it for Angela's. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All the protection in the world wouldn'ta stopped Ernie from tryin' to complete his mission."

Hutch stared with amazement at his partner. _Here I am, trying to make him feel better, and he's turned the tables on me again!_ "You might have me there, partner. Your logic seems inescapable." The wall was coming down.

"Just one more thing, buddy. Change is inevitable, but this whole fucking mess has warped that process. _We_ have to get control of our lives again. We have to get back on the street together again. If we don't, then we'll always wonder if we could have and it will tear our guts out. We need to _act_. _We_ need to go on the offensive and get Mitchell ourselves. Me and thee, partner."

Starsky finally met those sky-blue eyes he trusted and loved so much. They almost seemed to burn with a fire borne of victory. "Hutch, I don't know if…"

The blond detective tsk-tsked his partner. "I know what you're going to say. Starsk, most of our job is thinking. Didn't you hear yourself last night? You convinced me _and_ Dobey to let you have a gun, because you thought the problem through. I didn't. As for the physical part, I know it will come. You are making it come back." Hutch looked deeply into Starsky's eyes, blue to blue, the color of cops. He wanted to find Starsky's self-doubt and purge it, burn it out of existence, because it would be the self-doubt that ultimately denied him his life as a cop.

The wall was almost down. But Hutch sensed that his friend's doubt crouched behind the small piece of wall left standing, just out of his reach.

Starsky looked away from Hutch's bright eyes. He felt the tears come again, in tandem with frustration and, finally reaching conscious awareness for the first time, a loss of identity. _Hutch, babe, don't you realize that I'm already off the force? Why do you think Meredith is your partner? Why'd you so quickly accept her? What am I supposed to _do_, dammit, now that I can't be a cop?_ He chanced a glance at his friend. He caught Hutch with his own guard down and saw something he had not expected to see. _I'll be damned. Hutch needs to feel right on the street himself. And the only way that'll happen is if he does it with me. _He gulped before saying, "Me and thee, babe. When do we get to work?"

Hutch grinned widely at his partner's answer. _David Michael Starsky, you're my treasure!_

4.2

The injured detectives returned to Hutch's room after Starsky's morning physical therapy session to find Parson and Bennett waiting for them. They still wore the same suits they had on the previous night, and exhaustion was apparent on their haggard faces. Hutch whistled and said, "Shit, guys, you look worse than Starsky and I do."

"Okay, Hutchinson, keep your compliments to yourself, _mon ami_," said Parson tiredly. "We're bustin' our buns to get these bad guys. Cut us some slack, got it?"

Starsky's temper flared. "Hey, Parson, Hutch didn't mean nothin'…"

Bennett quickly interrupted Starsky. "Please excuse Lancelot, gentlemen. He is always rather argumentative when he goes without sleep for an extended period. I hope you understand."

There were nods from the other three detectives and any animosity soon passed. Parson, who had been in the reclining chair, reluctantly rose so Starsky could occupy it. Hutch made straight for the bed. "All right, Bennett, Parson, what do you have?" asked the blond man once he was settled.

"I regret to inform you that nothing on Mr. Mitchell has turned up. However, the Mustang automobile has been found in a parking lot near Williamson and 17th Streets. It is currently under 24-hour surveillance. Also, officers are canvassing the neighborhood. Perhaps we have some encouraging news for you. After examining the information sent to us from the Agency and checking current whereabouts, we have narrowed down the pool of suspects for the shooter, and presumably the bomber, to these three. Please take a moment to scrutinize these files, gentlemen." Bennett handed Hutch one file and Starsky two.

The room was quiet and filled with anticipation. Hutchinson and Starsky studied the files closely. Several minutes elapsed before Hutch closed his file and said, "This one does nothing for me. Starsk, give me one…" He stopped when he saw the look of angry recognition in the dark blue eyes. "What is it, buddy?" Hutch asked with caution and caring. "You got something?"

Starsky slowly closed the file he had been reading. "Don't know if he's the shooter. I can only remember Ernie's, I mean Mitchell's hands. But I knew this asshole in 'Nam. I broke his jaw."

"I thought you said you hadn't made any enemies when you were in-country," Hutch reminded him.

"Well, he never really became my enemy. Circumstances changed."

"Would you care to elaborate on that, Starsk? This might be one of the assassins."

Starsky hesitated, then sighed with a shudder before continuing in a soft and deliberate manner. "My buddy and I were on a three-day pass in Saigon, when we heard the sound of cryin' and squealin' comin' from an alley. We run toward the sound and find this…this…_animal_" – he angrily thumped the file in his hand – "rapin' a Vietnamese girl. Wudn't more than 'leven or twelve." Starsky paused once more. Hutch knew it was to control his anger and hatred and sadness. "If I had had my knife, I'd'a cut off…Well, I punched him while my buddy saw to the girl. We took him to the MPs who locked him up." Another pause. No one even breathed. It was a full minute before Starsky spoke again. "The fucker got off scott-free. Me and my buddy were back in the bush the next day and he got killed. The little girl disappeared along with her family into the countryside somewhere. My word against his." Starsky closed his eyes and withdrew behind the wall.

The other three detectives were speechless. All were repulsed and deeply saddened by the story Starsky had just related. To them, rape was murder of the soul and those guilty of that crime never got what they deserved for punishment. And Starsky witnessed one of his fellow soldiers committing this heinous act on a young girl. They were in awe of his self-control, then and now. They wondered if the rapist knew how lucky he was to get off with just a broken jaw.

It was nearly five minutes later when Hutch eased the file folder from Starsky's grip, but not before squeezing his hand. He opened it slowly: Franklin Delano Henderson; Special Forces, U.S. Army; two tours in Vietnam; Purple Heart; two Bronze Stars. He looked at the photograph: bland, non-descript Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes, average height and build. _Destined to blend in, to not be noticed, just what the CIA likes,_ thought Hutch. But there was something oddly familiar about the man. _Just add ten years to him. Dammit, where have I seen him before?_

Then he had it. "Starsk?" He waited for a response but when there was none, he asked again, this time with command in his voice. "Starsky. I've seen him. He was getting into the…" Hutch strained to remember, snapping his fingers several times. "The VW Beetle! Yeah, he got into a tan Bug in front of my apartment the afternoon before it blew up. _He_ was _there_!" Then another memory, very harsh and very graphic, rushed into his consciousness. "I remember now where I first saw him," he said with hushed intensity. "I saw him behind the gun." Hutch stared at the picture, not wanting to relive the hit in the police garage but reliving it anyway.

Starsky, who had not moved, now opened his eyes, glistening with excessive moisture. "Hutch," was all he said, voice cracking.

Bennett and Parson, both astute observers, were utterly astounded by what they had witnessed just now and last night. The trust Hutchinson and Starsky shared in each other, the way they complemented each other, the love and concern they felt toward each other, were all in evidence to explain such an extraordinary partnership. And this partnership was going to crack the case wide open.

"Starsky, in your opinion, do you think this Henderson fellow would hold enough of a grudge against you to seek vengeance of his own accord?" asked Bennett.

The curly-haired detective blinked hard several times and cleared his throat. "No way, Bennett. When I heard charges against him were dropped, I also heard he laughed about me gettin' punished instead, for hittin' him."

"Starsky's right, Bennett. If the first attack had been revenge for Henderson, he would've kept trying to kill Starsky himself. Henderson was CIA, and there is enough to tie him to Gunther."

"Of course, I agree. But we must consider all angles, mustn't we? Just playing devil's advocate, you know. Well, gentlemen, where do you suggest we go from here?"

Hutchinson's respect for Clive Bennett jumped several points as it became obvious he considered them a part of the team, not just the victims. "The usual. APBs on Henderson and the VW. And we want to read _all_ the reports. Any other ideas, Starsk?"

The other three detectives looked at the brooding, dark-haired man expectantly. Finally, he replied, "You been concentratin' the search for these flakes in places like the Baltimore and St. Francis, right?"

Parson said, "Yeah, dude, so?"

"So I don't think that's where to look. They won't be hidin' out in dives or flophouses. They'll act like the VC did in the villes. They'll be in plain sight."

4.3

Before heading for his daily visit with the psychologist, Starsky insisted he visit with Jackson Walters. He had felt too exhausted and too guilty the previous day, and too worried about Hutch. Now, almost 36 hours after the attack, Starsky finally did feel ready, physically and emotionally, to see Jackson, to face the blame from the young man and his grandmother.

Hutch used his right hand and Starsky his left to guide the wheelchair the latter rode in to ICU; they wouldn't let their police guards help. Starsky inwardly balked at the need for a wheelchair, but acquiesced to it. His new injury had set him back, decreasing his stamina somewhat and making him unsteady enough on his feet that two canes were necessary. And he couldn't use two canes because his surgeon insisted he use a sling. But, most importantly, Hutch needed something to lean on.

The ward clerk recognized both of them when they stopped to ask for Jackson's room. She smiled apologetically when she said, "First room around the corner." Hutch stiffened, understanding the meaning of her expression.

Suddenly, they were there, at the window. Starsky saw Jackson, surrounded by IVs, monitors, tubes, and his grandmother. Hutch at first saw Starsky in there, but when he blinked, Starsky had become Jackson. Hutch started sweating and his back began to sting. He was grateful, however, for what appeared to be no memory of this place for Starsky.

"Uh, Starsk, why don't I wheel you in there and I'll come back out here, okay?"

Starsky heard the almost-anxious tone in his partner's voice. "Whattsa matter, babe?"

"Well, just thought you might want to see Jackson first by yourself. I'll talk with him later."

"Hutch, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" Hutch said a bit too emphatically.

Starsky's intuition and ability to read his partner coupled with the expression on the clerk's face gave him the answer. _Shit! This musta been _my_ room!_ "Okay, that's a good idea. Let's go."

Mrs. Walters turned to the sound of the opening door. Her worried brown eyes exuded warmth and welcome when she saw the two cops she adored and considered family. She released Jackson's hand and quickly approached the detectives.

"Ken, baby, you okay? I heard about the explosion. Oh Lord, I'm so glad you're okay. You come live with me and Jackson and Sammi until you get you another place, you hear?" She kissed his cheek and patted his left hand gently.

"Thanks, Mrs. Walters. How's Jackson?"

"Doctors say he's doin' fine. They'll be movin' him out of here tomorra mornin'. But Ken honey, you don't look so good." The sweat and pallor and body language that screamed anxiety were hard to miss.

"Just tired. I'll wait for you in the hall, Starsk." He kissed the large black woman on her cheek. He staggered from the room and the old images that seemed to hang around in the room like vile, pathetic ghosts. Finding a chair in the hallway, he collapsed in it, ignoring the pain from the burns on his backside, and sought refuge in sleep.

Mrs. Walters placed her graceful hands on either side of Starsky's face. She kissed his hair, then his forehead. "My, my, David, are you okay? I been worried sick, but I couldn't leave Junior. He's been askin' after you when he's awake. They're keepin' him pretty doped up." She studied the knitted brow, the moist, sad eyes, the quivering chin, the bobbing Adam's apple. "David, you better talk to me."

"Mrs. Walters, I'm so sorry. Jackson's here because-a me. He saved my life and it almost cost him his own! I don't blame you for hating me!" Starsky couldn't hold the tears back.

Neither could the older woman. She rubbed the tears from Starsky's face with her thumbs as her own tears trailed down her cheeks. "Oh, my baby, there ain't nothin' to blame you for! We don't hate you, and never could. We _love_ you, more than you know, honey." With that, she pulled Starsky's head into her abundant bosom.

"Starsky?" The voice from the bed was hoarse and unsteady, but loud enough to be heard over the crying and the monitor. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Jackson." Mrs. Walters pushed the wheelchair to her grandson's bedside. "How're you doin'?"

He sighed and smiled. "Okay, now you're here. Glad to see he didn't get you, Starsky."

"He didn't get me because-a you." Starsky saw no reason to let the young man know about the knife wound. "You saved my life, Jackson." _For what it's worth, and right now, that ain't much._ "How can I ever thank you?"

"You call me 'Junior,' okay?"

With those five simple words, Jackson Walters, Jr. made it clear that he did not fault Starsky and considered the detective more than a friend.

Starsky covered Junior's hand with his. "It would be my honor, Junior," he whispered, voice cracking with relief and gratitude.

~s&h~

The ICU ward clerk shook Hutch's right arm in an attempt to rouse him. "Detective, hey, Detective. Wake up, you're dreaming. Hey! HEY!" With one more rough shake, Hutchinson's eyes popped open. The fear and agony in them caught the clerk by surprise and she backed away quickly. "Uh, you've been dreaming, sir. Pretty loud at it, too. You okay?"

It took a few moments for him to orient himself to his surroundings. _Damn fuckin' ICU. _His sweat had completely soaked all his dressings and even his scrub pants. The back of his head throbbed, the burns stung, and his arm ached relentlessly. "Yeah, thanks. Sorry. Bad dream." He smiled sheepishly at the clerk and his two guards.

"Yeah, I'd say so." She looked with pity at him before returning to her desk.

Hutch tried to force himself to forget the dream, but the more he tried, the more it intruded into his consciousness.

A room, the room in the ICU, painted in red with a white strip dividing the room in half. Walking in, he examines a wall from inches away and realizes the red paint is blood. He looks even closer. It is the name STARSKY written over and over in his partner's blood, not bull's blood, and in the same penmanship as was on the bathroom mirror in the courthouse, until the walls and ceiling and floor are solid red. There is a white rectangular object, about two by four feet, hovering in the middle of the room. He walks toward it, but it just gets smaller. When he is almost there, a bodiless hand envelops the object, pulls it away. He hears a voice, muffled and panicky, calling his name, coming from the object. He calls out, "NO, leave him alone, NO, leave him here!" He reaches out and sees his hand, now with elongated, sharp talons, tearing at empty air. He calls out again and again. His words echo endlessly.

Hutch barely made it to the men's room to vomit his lunch.

4.4

Joan Meredith stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, with dark shadows beneath, her light brown complexion splotched. She sighed and drenched that worn face with cold water. She let it drip-dry as she continued to stare.

Once her face was dry, she left the restroom near Dobey's hospital office to search for her new partner. _Hell, I'm running through partners at Metro as if they were disposable._ The man in question, Babcock, was without his usual partner. Simmons had a family emergency in New Mexico and would be gone about a week. Captain Dobey did the logical thing and put Meredith and Babcock together. Bennett and Parson, in a meeting that had just adjourned, had told all the detectives on the case to focus on searching for the suspects in places suspects wouldn't ordinarily hide. So the new partners' first assignment was to canvass the better motels and hotels and some of the boarding houses within the Metro division.

Meredith found him drinking deeply from the water fountain. He was about her height, white, balding, with a slight beer belly. He didn't look particularly bright or intelligent, but she knew looks could be deceiving. Deception was important for undercover detectives, and Dobey wouldn't tolerate anyone stupid under his command.

"Babcock, let's hit the streets."

His brown eyes caught hers while he wiped the cool water from his lips. "You got it. Hey, what do you want me to call you?"

"'Meredith' will be fine. Do you mind taking your car? You know the area better than I do."

"No prob. Hey, you like Moroccan food? Maybe we could stop there for something to eat when we get hungry. Great place."

"As long as they don't serve donuts."

~s&h~

It was almost 6 p.m. when Babcock and Meredith pulled into the parking lot of their seventh motel of the day. They were tired, hot, hungry, and dirty. As they got out of Babcock's Camaro, Meredith said, "After this one, how about a break? He nodded enthusiastically.

They entered the lobby side by side, badges already out. They had learned by the third motel that a white man and a black woman entering such an establishment brought snide and racist comments. Badges plainly in view from the start stopped such juvenile remarks from escaping clerks' lips, but it still didn't stop sneers.

It was Babcock's turn to flash the pictures of Henderson and Mitchell and question the clerk. Meredith noticed that he lingered longer over Henderson's photo before handing the pictures back. So when he said he had never seen either man, she pressed him. "Look closer at this one, sir," she said evenly and non-threateningly as she put the photo of Henderson back in his hand. "And please remember there is a penalty for lying to the police and for obstructing justice."

He flashed her a peeved look and studied the picture again. After a minute, he said with some uncertainty, "Well, I can't be sure, you understand. But I _think_ this guy checked in just after I came on at 3 today. You know, he don't look like nothin', just your average Joe, you understand."

Babcock and Meredith felt their hearts race. "You have a name on him, sir?" Meredith hid the excitement she felt. Babcock patted her back surreptitiously.

The clerk peered at the register. "Well, if it is that guy, he signed in as 'David M. Hutchinson.' Home city San Francisco."

_It's got to be him. The cocky bastard!_ "What room?" Neither she nor Babcock could suppress their excitement any longer.

The clerk caught their excitement. He looked back at the rack of cubbyholes behind him before answering Meredith. "203. And he's not there! Key's in the hole!"

Inwardly, Meredith shrieked for joy. She turned to talk with Babcock but he was already heading for the entrance. "I'm calling for back-up. Silent approach. Be right back."

She nodded and turned her attention back to the clerk. "Sir, please call the room to be sure he's not in."

"What do I _say_ if he answers? I can't just say 'wrong number,' you understand!" The clerk was becoming agitated now.

"Uh, say you are checking to see if he really made a long-distance call to…Morocco."

He looked at her as if she were crazy, but dialed the number. He let it ring ten times before hanging up. "No answer, Officer."

Babcock rejoined her. "Back-up on the way. The black-and-whites will stay a block or two away, but the others will come right up. Let's check out the room. Can we have the key, Mr…?"

"Salvatore Kelly. Sure. If you need me, I'll be in the back, hiding..."

"We understand," they interrupted in unison. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, discussing their tactics and drawing their weapons. They found Room 203 at the end of the hall, right next to another set of stairs. Meredith stood to one side, Babcock to the other. He nodded his readiness. She knocked several times on the door and said in her best Mexican accent, "Hey, meester, you got enough towels? I got more, you need them." They waited to the count of ten. She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and waited.

Nothing. Their adrenalin levels soared even higher as they charged into the small room, guns following their lines of sight. Babcock checked the bathroom and found only motel-supplied toiletries and an Army-issue kit bag. "I'll wait in the hall while you search, okay?"

She nodded. Finding a small suitcase under the double bed, she pulled it out and opened it.

Henderson had returned to the motel just minutes after the detectives had left the front desk. He had run up the stairs closest to his room and had almost turned the corner when he remembered he didn't have the key. He had taken the first step down when he heard a man's voice very close by say something about waiting and searching.

_Fuck it! They've gotta be the cops!_ He squatted to reach the small revolver strapped to his ankle. He cocked it very slowly and silently. He risked a quick glance around the corner and saw the back of a man who held a service revolver using a two-handed grip at shoulder height. He took two deep breaths to help him overcome his anger at being identified and found and to let his Special Forces and CIA training take over. He swung himself around the corner, adopted a wide stance, and pulled the trigger.

Babcock, shot in the back, grunted and fell forward. Meredith inhaled sharply. She readied her weapon and cautiously started for the hallway. She gasped when a man in dark blue sweatclothes and aiming a gun at her blocked the door. Then, as if in slow motion, she saw his finger tighten on the trigger. She willed herself to do the same. The bullet seemed to amble toward her, plucking at the sleeve of her jacket before hitting her mid-chest, just to the left of the sternum. _I can't breathe!_ She never saw the bullet she fired, but she did see the man she knew to be Henderson grimace and reach for the left side of his head. She flew backward several feet. Then it went dark as the pain registered in her brain.

Henderson immediately headed for the fire equipment box a few yards down the hall. He opened the glass door and pulled out a blond wig and mustache. His head throbbed where Meredith's bullet grazed him. For some reason, it had bled very little, and his sweatshirt bore only a few stains that were difficult to see. Donning the wig, sticking the mustache on, and shoving the hot weapon in the waistband of his pants hurriedly, he raced down the stairs two at a time.

He arrived in the lobby just in time to see a blue Ford sedan with a mars light attached to its roof screech to a halt at the entrance. Two men jumped out and drew their weapons before entering the motel. One looked like a surfer and the other like a college preppie.

"Oh, my!" Henderson shrieked in an irritating falsetto. "Oh, I hope you're cops!" He jumped up and down. "I was out jogging and I heard firecrackers or maybe gunshots! Are you cops? I'm too scared to go up there!"

"Sir, where did the shots come from? Did you see anyone leave?" The questions were from the surfer. The preppie was already heading up the stairs.

"I'm pretty sure they came from here. Oh, my God, could someone be dead? I never saw a dead body before!" His jumping became more frantic and he sounded as if he were near a nervous breakdown.

"It's going to be fine, sir. Please wait outside. There will be uniformed officers here shortly. They will help you." The surfer rushed to catch up with his partner.

Henderson calmly left the building and walked away at a leisurely pace. No one stopped him.

4.5

Starsky was exhausted and in barely tolerable pain from his afternoon physical therapy session. After a dinner of special burgers from The Pits, he quickly fell asleep in the reclining chair despite the animated conversation of Huggy Bear.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Dobey joined the three in Hutch's room. "Hutch, Huggy. Got some news. What about Sleepin' Beauty over there?"

"Just fell asleep a little while ago, Captain. I'll wake him."

Before Hutch could do so, Dobey signaled _No_. He began speaking again in hushed tones. "The news is a mixed bag." Hutch and Huggy stared at him, expressions urging him to continue. "Babcock and Meredith found Henderson at the Sleepy Inn Motel over on Main, out in the open, just as Starsky said he would be. He got away. Bennett is pretty sure he even talked to him."

Hutch seethed. "How the hell did _that_ happen?" he whispered angrily.

"Henderson shot Meredith in the chest and Babcock in the back." Dobey paused as Hutch and Huggy deflated. "But they were smart. They wore vests, like you and your partner ought to. Babcock's got a broken rib and Meredith has a bruised br…uh, chest, maybe a contused heart. They're both in the ER here getting checked out."

"Look, Starsky's not to know any of this yet," Hutch commanded, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing. "Not anything. Nothing about finding Henderson or the shootings. I don't think he can handle this yet" – _Hell, _I'm _having a hard time with this news_ – "so I'll tell him when the time is right. You got that, Captain?" _Understand that I have to protect him from this for now!_

Dobey was taken aback at the intensity his blond detective exhibited. _It's that 'White Knight' in him – no, it's something else._ "Maybe it is best Starsky doesn't know this yet. Okay, I'll leave that up to you, Hutchinson."

Starsky began to snore, breaking the tension in the room. "I'm going back to the ER to check on those two. I'll try to keep this off the TV news, but I can't promise anything." Dobey marched out of the room.

"Well, time for me to split, too, my blond Arab. Anita can only work a few hours to cover for me tonight. You want me here when you tell 'im 'bout Meredith? His transformation from Sleepin' Beauty to Ragin' Beast should prove to be interesting viewing. You might need some protection, if you get my drift."

Hutch smiled weakly and shook his head. "Thanks, Huggy. I can manage."

"Yeah, maybe, but can _he_?" Huggy asked as he jerked his head toward the sleeping man. "Later." The tall, thin man left his two best friends, wondering how much more they could take.

~s&h~

Shortly after Huggy left, Hutch had fallen asleep as well. He awoke abruptly when he heard a harsh scream, then "Huuuutch!" Starsky was thrashing around in the chair, apparently still asleep and having a nightmare.

"Starsk, Starsk, wake up!" Hutch shouted. One of the cops guarding them stuck his head into the room. Hutch waved him off. "Hey, buddy, it's a dream. Now wake up!"

The midnight blue eyes shot open, then sought for and found sky-blue eyes. Hutch saw the terror and hopelessness in his partner's eyes change to recognition and…defeat?

"Starsk, buddy, you were just having a dream." He tried to mask his own feelings of inadequacy by sounding reassuring and soothing. "See? Everthing's okay. You're here, safe with me."

Starsky ran his left hand through his damp, dark brown curls. The movement brought a grimace of pain, so he took a few deep breaths, which also helped to steady his continued trembling. "God, Hutch, it was horrible! I…I, shit, I was on _fire_. I could see my feet, then legs turning into ashes and smoke. I could see you and called for you but you were just out of reach." Hutch shivered, recalling the nightmare he had just hours ago. "Then you looked at me really strange, and you breathed out fire, right out of your mouth! At _me_! Then I burned faster and screamed your name one more time before I was…was…" He stopped, unable to go on. He stared at Hutch, eyes pleading for some meaning to his dream other than what seemed to be the obvious one: his death at the hands of Hutch.

The big blond eased his way to sitting on the side of the bed. He gingerly placed his hand on Starsky's leg. He closed his eyes momentarily to hide the hurt when he felt his friend shrink away from him. "Starsk, it's just a dream. It doesn't mean _anything_. You _know_ I would _never_ do anything to harm you, don't you?" Starsky said nothing. "Don't you?" Hutch repeated, this time in a tone that insisted on a reply. _Starsky, don't let some stupid dream ruin what we have!_

"Yeah. But it was so _real_." Hutch felt the tension in Starsky recede minutely. "What time is it? I gotta call Meredith." _I'm gonna die soon, and I gotta set things right with her._ Starsky caught the fleeting look of guilt cross his partner's pale face. _Oh, God, something's wrong!_ "Hutch? What are you not tellin' me? Meredith hurt? Ddddead?" He felt his heart stop.

"No, no, no, she's not dead. She and Babcock found Henderson earlier this evening. He shot them both, but they had vests on. She's okay, probably just bruised."

Starsky bolted from his chair, causing the pain in his chest and abdomen to roar upwards and surprising his friend with the fact that he could even move like that. "Where is she? Why the hell didn't you tell me? How can you keep somethin' like this from me after what happened yesterday? Huh?" He staggered to a wall, leaned heavily against it, and wrestled with his pain and anger at Hutch. He pounded the wall with his fist several times. _Will this _never _end?_

Hutch made his way over to stand in front of Starsky. He spoke quietly to the top of the curly head. "After all that's gone down, I didn't think you could handle it. I wanted to protect you. I think I made a good decision."

Starsky lifted his head to look Hutch in the face. "What gives you the right to decide what I can handle? Who the hell made you my mother, anyway, or my _protector_?" The contempt and sarcasm in his voice attacked Hutch's soul.

"_You_ did, when we became partners, my friend and brother." _And you protect _me_ from me._

Starsky's eyes locked on his partner's. Seconds later, Hutch saw the dark blue eyes start to glaze over. He knew the stress, pain, and anxiety were winning despite Starsky's will. Then his eyes rolled back, his mouth dropped open, and he slid down the wall. Hutch did his one-armed best to ease his way to the floor.

A few minutes later, a nurse came in to take their vital signs and give them their pain pills. She found them huddled awkwardly together on the floor, Hutch with both arms wrapped around Starsky whose head was buried in the blond man's chest. Hutch was gently rocking them and singing something about black bean soup.

4.6

"Starsky, it's 1 in the morning. You can't go see Meredith now. She's asleep. Go back to your room. I've got to get some sleep," he groaned.

"I don't care, Hutch. I gotta talk to her. Gotta do it now. I'm gonna do it, with or without your help."

"Starsky, I swear, if humans and mules could mate, you'd be their spawn. At least tell me why you have to do it this minute."

"Just…just because, okay?" He dared not tell Hutch the truth: _I can't tell him I'm gonna die soon._

Hutch snorted and called out for the police guards. "What is it, Hutchinson?" asked Officer Murphy, a strawberry blonde with tons of freckles and a dazzling smile that rivaled Starsky's. Hutch made a mental note not to forget about her when this ordeal with the assassins was over.

"My mentally deranged partner is insisting on visiting Detective Meredith now. Can you help out? We really could use wheelchairs, and the nursing staff can't really spare anyone during the night shift."

"Starsky, don't you know it's…"

"One in the mornin', Murphy. I may be deranged, but I can read a clock. Will you help us?"

"Well, sure. Gives us something to do other than drink coffee and jump every time someone comes near this room." She left to find two wheelchairs.

"Starsk, buddy, why do _I_ have to come? She's _your_ lover." Hutch perceived that Starsky felt physically stung by that remark. He hurried to cover it up, but wasn't fast enough. _What's he hiding? What hasn't he told me?_

"Moral support, partner. Besides, she's _your_ partner."

"You got me. I surrender."

~s&h~

Ten minutes later, they were in the step-down unit. Starsky easily sweet-talked Maxine into letting them visit Meredith. "The only reason I'm letting you do this, Davey, is because I know how you are. You'd sneak in the minute I had my back turned. Don't stay long."

"Maxie, you're the greatest." He kissed her hand; she blushed.

The partners abandoned the wheelchairs outside the room and walked in, Starsky leaning on Hutch for support, more from exhaustion than actual need. His heart started beating again when he saw that angelic face. The only thing marring it was the nasal cannula dispensing oxygen into her nostrils. _Terry, you'd like her a lot._

The two men made it to her bedside before Starsky spoke. "Meredith?" he asked in a whisper.

Her eyelids slowly opened to reveal tired brown eyes. It took her a moment to recognize the men staring down at her, but when she did, her face lit up with her own trademark grin. "You came." Her happiness painted her words with bright pastels.

Hutch jumped in before Starsky could speak. "Meredith, good to see you, partner. What's the word?"

"All the tests so far are normal, except x-ray. Cracked rib. Makes it hard to breathe. I'm here just for monitoring. They'll repeat two tests later. If they're okay, I can go home by lunchtime." She smiled. "I got him, too."

"I hate to bow out, but I'm wasted. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to bed." Hutch gestured for Meredith to scoot over in bed, and he sat Starsky down in the just-opened space. When Starsky tried to protest, he just shook his finger at him. "'Night, Meredith." He blew her a kiss before he left. To Starsky, he sent his thoughts: _Don't blow this, buddy. You two belong together._

"Meredith, I…I've been such a putz." She nodded. "I don't know why I came down on you like that. I shoulda let you explain. But I was hurt, and scared. I thought you didn't really love me."

She sighed. "Starsky, it's because I love you that it took me so long to come see you. When I saw the yellow tape outside your room, I thought you were dead, but even when Delores told me you weren't, I didn't believe her right away. It wasn't until then that I realized how much I really do love you, that my feelings weren't an idealization of that wonderful night together, or the novelty of being with a white man. That, along with—" She stopped to fight back the tears that were welling up rapidly.

Starsky leaned toward her and stroked her cheek several times. "You have no idea how happy I am to hear that." He half-laughed and half-cried. "Forgive me?"

She took his hand and kissed the palm. "What do you think?"

Through the window, Maxine watched Starsky lay down alongside Meredith. Her monitor went crazy for a few moments while he snuggled into her shoulder. The nurse grinned when she saw him throw his leg over hers. She told the guards that it looked like he was staying the night here. She left them staring at each other, wordlessly sharing their frustration with their crazy, unpredictable charge.

4.7

Joan Meredith's blood work and echocardiogram proved negative for a cardiac contusion. She was discharged after lunch. Dobey tried to put her on medical leave for a week, but she insisted on working the Mitchell and Henderson case from a desk (even she admitted she wasn't up to the streets yet). He relented, griping the entire time about headstrong detectives and wasn't he the boss. Secretly, he admired her dedication and her tenacity, two valuable qualities for a detective.

Three days later, Ken Hutchinson was approved for discharge, even though some of the second-degree burns still required dressings. Finally, the pain was actually responding to the non-narcotic analgesics. The nightmare of the bloody room stayed, however. He had asked for and received a prescription for sleeping pills.

Hutchinson was in Dobey's hospital office to pick up some reports when he told him the news of his impending discharge later that afternoon. Along with the reports he picked up his brand new Magnum.

"Sit down, Hutchinson."

The blond man heard the command in that sentence. He sat in the chair directly across from the captain. "Yeah, Captain, what is it?"

"Tonight you stay at my house. Edith won't have it any other way, and neither will I. Rosie and Cal miss their uncle Hutch. Maybe you can convince her not to run away from home to find Starsky. She's drivin' us crazy." He cleared his throat and picked up a pencil. "Then you go into a safe house." He waved the pencil for emphasis. When he saw Hutch start what he knew would be a protest by the shifting in his seat and defiant look on his face, Dobey cut him off by slashing the air with the pencil. "That's an order. Starsky will join you when he's discharged. Should be only a couple more days. Barbara tells me he's using the cane now just for pity." He leaned back in his chair. "You two will stay there until we have Henderson and Mitchell in custody. Period. End of discussion." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell Starsky when you see him."

"Oh no, Cap'n." Hutch stood quickly, shaking his hand back and forth. "I won't do your dirty work for you. When _you_ tell him, I want to be some place safe. He'll explode. He hasn't been _home_ for almost three months."

"Don't you think I know that, Hutch? He's too easy a target there. But it's not safe."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're right, Captain. Certainly it wouldn't be physically safe. But what about mentally?" Hutch cocked his head to the side, waiting for an answer.

"What good is mentally safe if you're dead?"

Hutch nodded his agreement reluctantly, slapped the files against his thigh, and headed for his room.

When he got there, he was surprised to see Starsky reclining in his bed. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be with the psychologist. And get off my bed."

The dark-haired man stuck his tongue out. Hutch decided not to push the matter – Starsky was in a mood.

"Well?"

"So I fired him. Told him the only way I'd really get better in the head is when Gunther" – Hutch heard the hesitation and fear in Starsky's voice when he said that name, but at least he could say it – "is locked behind so many bars that he'd get lead poisonin' tryin' to get to the exercise yard. Then I told 'im I'd have to cuff Mitchell and Henderson myself. He can't help with that." He sighed. "It's the only way we can get our lives back."

"Starsk, I think it's best if you hear it from me. Neither one of us'll be on the street. Dobey is putting us in a safe house for the duration."

"WHAT!" came the expected explosion. Starsky was off Hutch's bed in three heartbeats. He began the pacing and arm waving. "He can't _do_ that to me, to _us_! They're _ours_, Hutch. Ain't _nothin'_ gonna be right till…unless _we_ put 'em in the slammer ourselves! Nobody'll catch those bastards unless we're out there! You know that!"

Hutch grabbed his volatile partner by the arm to stop him and got in his face. "What I know is that Dobey's right. We go out on the street in this condition, and we're dead. We're not ready to be bait. We need more time."

"But we don't have time. How long you think before they come after us again? How many other cops and innocent people gonna get hurt? How long can we stay in that safe house? You _know_ the only way we can get those suckers is to be out there."

Hutch shook his head several times rapidly and clenched his eyes tightly. "So you're right, too, Starsk." He looked back at Starsky. "But what good is right if you're dead?" _Geez, I sound like Dobey._

"You're takin' Dobey's side to protect me, aren't you?"

The accusatory tone in Starsky's voice cut Hutch deeply. He closed his eyes again and turned away.

"Aren't you!" Starsky demanded.

This time, Hutch exploded. "Yes, I am! So sue me! Lord knows you've got grounds for it. I've done a piss-poor job of protecting you for _years_ now. I'm not very good at reeling you in, Starsky. I _know_ how you are, and I _still_ don't stop you from jumping into" – he took a deep breath – "into harm's way. I have no idea how you've survived this long with me as your partner!" He started trembling with silent sobs.

Starsky took Hutch in his arms, grimacing when the blond head landed on his right shoulder. "Hutch, babe, don't you know I'm still here because-a _you_? I survived this long because you protect me while still letting me be me. Having you as my partner and friend is the best thing that's ever happened to me." Hutch's trembling increased. _Aw, shit, gettin' too damned soapy in here for me._ "Well, almost. There's Terry, and Meredith, and Rosie – Malone and Dobey, of course – and Dennis – he's the first guy I had a fight with and won - my drill sergeant, the lady who cleans the bathrooms in the stationhouse…"

Starsky stopped as Hutch raised his head to look at him. He gently cupped the curly-haired man's neck in his hand and smiled broadly. He bowed his head slightly, blond hair finally out from the gauze turban. Starsky bowed his until their foreheads touched.

_We'll find a way to get those bastards, Starsky. We'll do it before they touch you again._

~s&h~

Captain Dobey hung up the telephone, and he was mad. Talking with the FBI always did that. But he now had a safe house for his men, but he had had to call in a favor. They would use one of the feds' houses, because it was likely the assassins knew all of the BCPD safe houses. The feds changed safe houses frequently, due to property forfeitures for federal crimes. Dobey hoped this would give his men an added measure of protection.

The phone rang. "Dobey here," he growled.

"Captain Dobey, this is Susanna Beck from KZAM-TV. Can you confirm that Detective Sergeants Kenneth Hutchinson and David Starsky will be discharged within the next few days? If so, when? We'd like to have a crew out there to film. Great human interest story."

Dobey recognized Beck's Texas drawl. She always did heartwarming stories and worked often and well with the BCPD. "Not this time, Miss Beck. I won't confirm or deny anything. The last thing they need right now is a media circus."

"Could you see your way through to an exclusive interview with them, off-camera?"

"I'll think about. But they'll have to agree."

"Thanks, Captain Dobey. Call me soon, ya hear?"

Dobey hung up the phone again. He had several more calls to make to inform a few people where Starsky and Hutchinson would be until the hitmen were apprehended. It was a very short list, so short he didn't have to write it down.

4.8

Hutchinson left the hospital late that afternoon with Captain Dobey. Hutch was dressed in a uniform, his long blond hair tucked underneath the uniform hat. The pressure from the hat on his scalp laceration gave him a headache. He had refused to shave off the mustache, but had agreed to trim it back and dye it red. He altered his gait and how he held his head. Disguising the cast and sling was too difficult, so he jogged most of the way to the car. He was looking forward to shopping with Edith Dobey for the beginning of a whole new wardrobe.

~s&h~

Dryden waited to approach the desk sergeant until he was alone and busy preparing for the change of shift report. "Hey, Sarge, is Starsky out of the hospital yet? I got some papers for him to sign about that Emily Harrison shooting last year."

Sergeant Perkins didn't look up. "What's the matter, Dryden? Too busy in IA to keep up?"

"Yeah, guess I let this one slip by. Look, if Captain Meyers finds out about this, I could be in real trouble. Help me out, will you?"

"Okay, but you owe me a big one." Perkins looked at Dryden's desperate face. "Nobody else is to know this, understand?" The IA officer nodded solemnly. "He's still in the hospital. He'll be at a safe house way out on Ocean Beach Boulevard when he gets discharged in a day or two if you miss him at Memorial. Now leave me alone. I got real police work to do."

~s&h~

Starsky left the hospital two days later. There was a huge party for him that morning, hosted by the ICU and PT staffs. Everyone came, even those who didn't know him but knew of him. The entire staff of Memorial, including the kitchen clean-up crew, considered David Starsky their miracle man. He wasn't the first patient to capture that designation, and everyone hoped he wouldn't be the last.

Dressed in a blue scrub suit and sneakers, he walked out of the hospital, along with a throng of workers getting off day shift, into a bright, cloudless, smogless day. He walked on his own, albeit slowly, without cane or someone's arm for aid. Once he spied the yellow Buick Electra 225, he walked to that. He peered into the car from the passenger side. "Hiya, Huggy! Like the hat."

The thin man tipped his chauffeur's cap. "Starsky, my man! I can see glimmers of the 'Strut' returning to your stride! Get in. Your newly appointed personal driver will take you to your temporary house of abode. That English dude and the Cajun fellow will be providing surveillance this beauteous California afternoon. Not to mention several other teams in unmarked cars. You know, if I didn't know better, I might think you were important."

Starsky settled comfortably in the plush seat. "Naw, Huggy, it's embarrassment prevention for the department. They'd look bad if the guys in the black hats got me first day outta the hospital."

"Starsky, you are strange." Huggy pulled the huge car expertly into traffic.

~s&h~

The safe house loaned to BCPD was a large, tastefully appointed four-bedroom affair on the beach. It had all the latest amenities, such as heated pool and Jacuzzi, and lots of living space. Starsky inhaled the salt air as deeply as he could. He surveyed the grounds – lush green lawn, lots of palm trees and flowers, no bushes – and identified the guards. They were dressed in their civvies, in an effort to divert attention away from who they really were.

"Come on, Starsky, before you breathe up all tha air. It's not good for you to hang out front for long."

"Okay, Hug. Let's go see what my new prison has in store for me."

The two men walked into a foyer filled with balloons and streamers. Hutch, Meredith, and Dobey bombarded Starsky with confetti and cries of "Congratulations!" and "Welcome home!" He squealed with delight, sounding like a six-year-old at his first real birthday party.

"I don't know what to say!"

"This is a first – Starsky speechless," quipped Hutch. "How about 'thanks,' buddy?"

"You're welcome." That remark got Starsky a faceful of confetti.

Meredith kissed Starsky soundly on the lips, but not before throwing a no-smart-remarks look to Huggy Bear. "Come on in. We've got a few surprises for you."

"Yeah, I can smell some of 'em. Burritos from Paco's?"

"At least we know that beak of yours is good for something else other than just a place to perch your sunglasses. But that's not all." Hutch motioned for his partner to follow.

They reached the opulent dining room. The table was laden with burritos, the ingredients for chili dogs, pizzas, Ma Starsky's cole slaw made by Meredith, Coke, root beer, and, in the center, a huge chocolate cake with buttercream icing, decorated with toy cop items and a "Welcome Back, Starkey." "Ice cream's in the freezer," said Hutch.

"Whad'ya do, have Wailin' Willie order the cake?" Starsky asked in mock anger.

"You don't like it? That's okay, I'll take it right back to the bakery." Hutch reached for the cake, calling his partner's bluff.

"No, no, it's fine. Really."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well," boomed Dobey, "let's eat! This is a party!"

As Starsky began to build a chili dog between bites of a fully loaded burrito, Dobey clapped the detective on the back. "Sorry, Starsky, but I couldn't have everyone here who wanted to be here. Security reasons, you understand. You'll be out of here soon, and we can throw you a _real_ party." Then he lowered his voice and spoke directly into Starsky's ear. "I'm really glad you made it, Dave."

Starsky swallowed, but not enough. "Thanks, Cap," he mumbled through partially chewed burrito.

About an hour later, Starsky pled exhaustion and begged for a nap. Hutch volunteered to show him his new bedroom. They had to climb a number of stairs. Fortunately, Starsky only paused momentarily at the top. His stamina and respiratory function were finally improving noticeably.

"Welcome to the master bedroom, partner," Hutch said as he opened the door with a flourish.

The room, decorated in earth tones, was huge. The four-poster king-size bed was covered with a thick dark brown comforter. The armoire, dressing table, love chest, and night tables were proportionally massive and in matching mahogany. On the chest, which stood at the foot of the bed, was a crocheted afghan. When Hutch saw Starsky looking at it, he said, "Your mother made that for you. She didn't want me to give it to you until you were out of the hospital."

He rubbed his head with both hands joyfully. He walked to the chest and picked up the gift. It smelled like his mother's house, his boyhood home. He lay down diagonally on the bed and covered himself with his mother's love. In seconds, he was fast asleep.

Hutch walked over and stroked the brown curls glittering with confetti. "I'll show you the basement den later. You wouldn't believe all the mail you got. Guess it'll wait until tomorrow."

~s&h~

A well-hidden Mitchell watched as Huggy Bear left the safe house, his confirmation that he had found the detectives' hideaway an hour ago. _Cops still look like cops, no matter how they're dressed._ He made plans to get Frankie, who was searching another part of Ocean Beach, find the blueprints for the house, do a night recon of the grounds, and snatch the two in the morning. Their own private hell was ready and waiting for them.

~s&h~

At 9 that evening, Hutch decided it was time to check on Starsky and get him to eat something. As he rose from the plush sofa, Meredith could see his own tiredness and fatigue. "Hutch, I'll check on him. Some warm pizza and a root beer should wake him up. I'll do it. You go to bed."

Hutch started to object, but stopped. _If these two are going to get together, I have to give them a chance to be alone._ "Thanks, Meredith. I am tired. My guards and I will pick you up at six so you can catch your flight to D.C. on time. We'll review Gunther's case before I have to be in court in the morning."

"That's fine. I'm glad we spent tonight just getting to know each other better. Good night, Hutch."

"Good night, fair lady." Hutch shuffled off to his room.

Meredith warmed several slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza and opened two root beers. Hutch had left the door to Starksy's room slightly ajar, so all she had to do was push it. She smiled when she saw him cuddled under the blue and red afghan. Before she got halfway across the room, he was groggily awake and muttering, "Pizza?"

"Here you go. Root beer, too." He slowly sat up and crossed his legs. "Com'ere, beautiful lady."

She joined him on the bed. She fed him a slice, which he devoured quickly and with gusto. "Eat another."

"Yeah, need my strength."

"For what?" she asked part innocently and part seductively.

He set the plate with the pizza on a nightstand along with the root beer bottles. He looked into her soul. He caught her in a tender embrace and began kissing her. She melted immediately and returned his wet kisses. When she went to remove his scrub top, she sensed hesitation on his part, and anxiety. She pushed on.

In the dim light supplied by the streetlights, she saw his array of scars for the first time. She could tell he was watching her closely, judging her reaction. They saddened her deeply, as she imagined the indescribable suffering they stood for. But they did not repulse her. "Do they hurt if you're touched?"

Starsky exhaled heavily, unaware that he had been holding his breath. His eyes were now filled with relief. He shook his head. "Not much. Mostly it's certain movements that hurt."

Meredith gently and lustfully ran her hands from his waist to his armpits. He moaned, but it was not from pain. She giggled deep in her throat when she saw the growing bulge in his pants. She thought she saw a tear track from one of his eyes as he pulled her down to him.

4.9

Hutch was pissed. He had called Meredith's place at 5, and again 15 minutes later. He wanted to be sure she was awake, but now it appeared she wasn't even there. He stormed to Starsky's room and opened the door without knocking. He stopped short before speaking and embarrassing himself when he saw the two entwined, sleeping, naked bodies on the bed. He turned red and backed out of the room post haste. He knocked on the door. "Hey, Starsky, you awake? You know where Meredith is? She's not answering her phone." _God, I hope that's enough to cover me!_

He laughed himself when he heard the frantic giggles and hushed words coming from within. "Just a minute, Hutch!" He laughed again at Starsky's self-conscious tone. "Come on in!"

Hutch opened the door and hoped he looked suitably surprised at finding Meredith in Starsky's bed, both with covers pulled up to their chins and grinning like canary-eating cats. "Well, well, what do we have here." He did his best to come across as a disappointed parent. But he couldn't deny the return of more life in his partner.

"Hutch, can we talk later? Meredith's got to shower, and eat, and get to her place to pack. Make us some breakfast, 'kay?" Starsky struggled to sound innocent.

"Ten minutes, or you get nothing."

As he left, he heard the whispers: "That gives us time for a quickie." "Yeah, only if we shower together." _One of these days, I have to tell Starsky he's a loud whisperer._

~s&h~

Huggy Bear arrived almost three hours after Hutch and Meredith, in tow with two guards, left for the airport. Hutch had an 11 o'clock court appearance concerning Gunther that Clements insisted he attend. The DA had also wanted Starsky there, but Dobey said no. So it fell to Huggy and Starsky's guards to get him to his now once-a-day PT session (the rest of his therapy being devoted to walking, then jogging, then eventually running). He nodded greetings to the two officers. Valdez actually said teasingly, "Hi, Mr. Bear."

The tall, thin man found Starsky in the kitchen eating cold pizza and drinking a Coke while he leaned against the dishwasher. He was dressed only in his scrub pants, which hung low on his hips. Huggy saw his scars for the first time. He was taken aback, not expecting to see this sight, but pleased that his friend was feeling comfortable enough with his changed body that he could finally show his friends. "Starsky, why aren't you dressed? You'll be late for PT, and Barbara is one lady I'd prefer not to cross. And who was your surgeon, Pablo Picasso? Too bad he didn't sign that work of art he left on you. You coulda made some dough. But then, I can't exactly see your ugly mug hangin' in the Museum of Modern Art."

"Okay, Mr. Funny Man. Don't give up your night job. Hey, can you take me clothes shoppin' after PT? All I got is this scrub suit, a pair of socks, and my sneaks."

"What? You don't got a pair of shorts!"

"Nope. Dobey won't let anybody go to my apartment."

"Well, pull up your pants, my man. I believe you are one, and you don't hafta show me."

"Wha'?" He looked down at his hip-huggers. "Oh. Be right back. I'll put my shirt on and brush my teeth. Might need your help with the shoes."

Huggy wandered around the kitchen. He could hear running water and Starsky singing in spurts. He heard a soft sound behind him and he turned.

He faced a man with a long-barreled gun. The weapon spat almost soundlessly at the same time Huggy called out, "Starsk, get out!" Huggy hunched over and fell to the floor.

"What did you say, Hug?" Starsky waited a moment and then decided to turn off the water. "Hug, you say somethin'?" He waited again, but there was no answer. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. He tried to remember where he had put his gun. _Shit, I can't believe I gave it to Parson yesterday morning and didn't think to get it back!_ He looked around the bathroom for a possible weapon, and chose the gold-plated bar of a towel rack. With it in his left hand, ready to swing, Starsky left the bathroom.

And was immediately and viciously smashed on his left cheek with the butt of a rifle. The force was strong enough to spin him around and slam him into the bathroom doorframe. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Phoenix and the Dragon:**

Part 5

5.1

Time: 0925

Officer Nick Valdez returned to consciousness slowly, finding himself prone on the plush grass. His chest hurt tremendously, and he found it hard to breathe. When he tried to stand, the pain increased and his head spun in twenty different directions. _I've been shot!_ he slowly realized. His next thought was for his partner. "Malcolm! You okay? I've been hit! Malcolm!" he called out weakly.

There was no answer. His head finally stopped swimming, so he decided to risk looking around. He saw no one, nothing out of place. Knowing he wouldn't be able to walk, he crawled to the nearest door of the house.

Ten minutes later, he made it through the wide-open front door. He spied a princess telephone on a table next to a bench. Slowly, he crawled to it, noticing for the first time the blood trail he was making. Pulling on the cord brought the phone to the floor. The effort winded him even more. He ignored the temptation to wait so he could catch his breath and deal with the pain. Slowly, he punched in Metro Division's number.

"Bay City Metropolitan Division, how may I help you?"

"Emergency." Breath. "Dobey." Ragged breath. "Star safe house." A breath even more ragged. Valdez passed out.

"Hello, you still there?" Without hesitation, the operator opened a line to Dobey's office telephone.

"Captain Dobey."

"Cap, I just got a call," said the operator, trying to keep calm. "I got a weird feeling about it. This guy was pretty out of breath and only said a few words. 'Emergency,' your name, and, get this, 'star safe house.' The line is still open but I can't hear anything."

Dobey's heart sank. "Put me through to dispatch now, dammit, NOW!" A second later, he was barking at dispatch. "This is Dobey. I need all available officers at 121366 Ocean Beach Boulevard, top priority! Send a couple of ambulances, too! DO IT NOW!"" He slammed the receiver down so hard the telephone broke. He grabbed his suit coat on the way to the detectives' room.

"Bennett! Parson! Let's go NOW!" Without as much as a glance at the other, the partners leaped from their chairs. Dobey was almost at the swinging doors when Hutchinson reached them from the other side.

"Hey, Cap, what's the rush?" the blond man asked.

"What are _you_ doin' here? Where's Starsky?" he bellowed.

"Got a hearing today, remember? I came in to review the files. Starsky's at the safe house." Hutch's stomach tied itself in a thousand knots. His fire-and-ice-blue eyes widened as he stared at Dobey. Two seconds ticked by. He turned around and ran down the stairs.

"Where the hell do you think _you're_ goin'?" Dobey rolled his eyes and gestured for Parson and Bennett to follow.

By the time the three men arrived in the garage, they saw Hutchinson driving a commandeered squad car out of the lot, tires and siren squealing and lights blazing.

Time: 1012

Hutchinson kept his mind empty as he barreled to the safe house in record time. He had no idea how he had kept control of the vehicle, weaving it in and out of traffic at speeds approaching 80 miles per hour and using just one hand.

The area around the safe house was clogged with squad cars, unmarked cars, and emergency vehicles. He screeched to a halt behind a squad car almost a block from the site. He was out and running before the engine shut down completely.

The knots in his stomach shot to his throat when he saw in the distance paramedics working on someone with dark curly hair just outside the front door. He conquered the weakness in his knees but couldn't control the racing of his heart. He finally reached the property line of the safe house and cut across the lawn to the paramedics. He slid the last few feet on his knees. He forced himself to look at the face of the man they were working so furiously on.

He took several stuttering breaths in when he recognized Nick Valdez. He felt a brief pang of guilt in his relief that it wasn't Starsky. He stayed only long enough to get back on his feet. He spotted another team of paramedics working on someone at the edge of the house. Running toward them, he saw their patient was Malcolm Foley. Another moment of relief followed by a heartbeat of guilt.

He headed back for the front door. He paused in the threshold, breathing heavily and shuddering at the immense amount of blood in the foyer. He flashed back to the garage but shook it away. He saw someone coming toward him. He gave no sign of recognition of her even after she called his name.

"Hutch," she said again, "it's Murphy. Come with me." She took his right hand in hers and walked away. She had to tug to get him into the house.

The strawberry blonde cop led him to the kitchen. She watched him carefully, squeezing his hand reassuringly, as he acknowledged the paramedics caring for…

_Huggy! Oh my God!_ he finally allowed himself to think. _This can't keep happening. They'll kill everyone until they get to us! _Then he was aware of sound for the first time in many minutes.

"Okay, both IVs are going wide open, he's hypotensive and tachycardic. Let's get him outta here, Chas. He needs surgery, not us."

"Roger that." The paramedic named Chas activated his radio. "County General, this is Rescue 12. Our patient continues to be hypotensive and tachy at 134. Resps are 24, shallow, and labored. IVs of lactated Ringer's times two are infusing. Permission to transport immediately."

"Permission granted. An OR team will be waiting for him. Over and out."

Hutch continued to stare blindly at the drama unfolding on the kitchen floor. Murphy squeezed his hand tighter and tugged again to get his attention. He sluggishly turned his stare from them to her.

"He's not here. We can't find him."

"Wha'?" he croaked out.

"Starsky. He's gone."

Hutch's features remained blank. Then, 15 seconds later, without preamble, he loosed a primal scream filled with agony, sorrow, and loss. He hit the wall with his left arm with such force that the plaster cracked like thin sheets of ice under stress. The pain of that, paired with the disappearance of his partner, made him falter. He had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. _I've failed you again! I wasn't there when you needed me!_ _And now Huggy is paying the price, too! _He slumped forward. He stayed there for a few minutes, while Murphy held his arm.

As the paramedics rolled their patient past the big blond man, both avoided looking directly at the person who rattled their teeth with such a seering howl. As he passed, Chas thought he could feel an intense heat radiating from the now-quiet man.

Dobey raced into the kitchen after he stood aside to let Huggy Bear and his caregivers pass. "What was that scream I heard? Hutch? You all right?" Worry and concern were all over the dark brown face. His usual gruff voice was softened considerably.

"They've got him, Captain. Henderson and Mitchell have kidnapped Starsk. And Huggy is…" Hutch drew in a deep breath, but it didn't stop his voice from cracking when he said, "I promised they wouldn't touch him again. And I failed him. He's probably dead already."

"You didn't fail him, son. If you had been here, they would've gotten you, too. And we don't know if he's dead." Secretly, Dobey feared and suspected the worst: that Starsky was dead, and they took the body just to torment them. Then it would be Hutch's turn.

Hutch started to sway, and it took both Dobey and Murphy to keep him from taking a header. They steered him to the living room and sat him down in an easy chair. His eyes were empty. His body was listless. He began to give in to his pessimism.

Bennett joined them in the living room. "Captain, I'm afraid the wounded officers were in no condition to speak. They, and Mr. Bear, are now en route to County General. Their chances of survival…" He paused and shrugged. "The first detective team on scene, Rogers and Thompson from the 19th precinct, have completed a thorough search of the premises. They discovered a trail of blood leading to the back door. It leads down to the beach, but they lost it there." The Englishman looked at Hutchinson before he proceeded. "The amount of blood does not appear significant. Parson is making a closer examination with them." He placed a supportive hand on Hutch's shoulder.

A man in a three-piece pinstripe suit strode into the room. He reeked of FBI. "Well, Dobey, seems that you called in that favor for nothing. Your guys still got hit."

Hutchinson lunged out of his chair and pushed the man to the floor mercilessly. He put a booted foot on the man's neck. "If I find out you or any of your other Bureau creeps leaked this location, I'll…" He began to press his foot down harder and harder and the man began to sputter and cough. Dobey had to forcefully pull Hutch away.

"That's enough, Hutch," Dobey said evenly as he held the blond man by his shoulders. The light blue eyes, steeped in frustration and worry, blazed when he looked into Dobey's dark brown orbs.

"I promised him, Cap."

Dobey, already filled with dread, almost broke down when he heard the earnest tremor in his detective's voice. He cleared his throat and said, "We'll find him, son." He patted him several times on both shoulders. "Bennett, why don't you take Detective Hutchinson and show him the blood trail."

"Yes, sir, certainly. Hutchinson?"

Hutch continued to stare into Dobey's seemingly placid and hopeful face for a few more seconds. Then he slowly began to nod, each nod deeper than the previous one. He looked past Dobey to Bennett, who carried an expression of sympathy on his patrician face. Hutch then nodded once at him. Dobey released his hold, and Hutch silently followed Bennett.

Dobey looked down at the FBI agent, who still cowered on the carpeted floor, holding his neck. The captain offered a hand. The agent accepted it cautiously. Dobey had him standing in no time. "Get this straight, Finley," Dobey said menacingly through clenched teeth, "if _I_ find out anyone at the FBI leaked this, Detective Hutchinson won't have a chance to get to him, 'cause _I'll_ beat him to it. Now get the hell outta here."

Agent Finley started to respond, but Dobey cut him off. "This is a _police_ department investigation. I don't want any of that garbage about this being a federal case now! We'll take care of our own."

"Seems to me that you haven't been very successful at that lately," Finley said smugly.

Dobey's fist streaked as fast as lightning to zap the agent's face. Finley's head snapped to the right and he stumbled, doubling over. He felt something wet and sticky rushing out of his nose. He backed away when he saw the large man coming after him, fisted hand cocked and ready to swing again.

"Captain!" Murphy ran the few steps to Dobey to stand between him and the agent. She put her small hand on the well-muscled right arm of the captain. "That's enough, sir. You've made your point." She hoped she sounded calm.

Eventually, Dobey relaxed, the arm came down, and the fist became an open hand. He breathed rapidly and deeply, almost hyperventilating. Murphy squeezed his arm slightly. When she saw the rage begin to recede, she pivoted to look at Finley. "It's over, Agent Finley. We can handle it from here." Her left eyebrow raised, adding a touch of defiance to her otherwise pacific expression.

"I intend on bringing assault charges against you and that maniac Hutchinson, Dobey!"

"Go ahead, file your complaint!" Dobey started toward the agent again, and he backed away once more.

"Captain," Murphy said with a warning in her tone. "I saw nothing out of the ordinary, Agent Finley. I am sure Detective Bennett will attest to the same. It was a shame, though, that you tripped and fell against the back of the sofa. May I call a paramedic unit for you, sir?" Her voice dripped with both challenge and convincing innocence.

Finley pulled out a white handkerchief and tentatively swiped his nose and upper lip with it. "Fuckin' cops," he uttered under his breath as he left the safe house.

Dobey harrumphed uncomfortably. He looked at the blonde policewoman and studied her for a few moments. "Get back to work, Murphy."

She drew herself to attention and said, "Yes, sir."

"And, Murphy, one more thing," said Dobey to her back as she walked away.

"Sir?"

"Good job." He smiled his gratitude. She gave him a you're-welcome grin.

Dobey stood alone in the luxurious living room. Less than 24 hours ago, it was part of a celebration of two men overcoming incredible odds. Now, it was tainted with loss – the loss of one of those young men he held close to his heart, the loss of control for the other, perhaps the loss of his own career.

_Screw my career_, he thought. _All I want is to bring those goddamned bastards to justice, before they waste my boys._ He left the room in a rush to look for Hutchinson and Bennett.

5.2

Time: 1053

"So, Hutch, I think Starsky is still alive. He's bait to bring you out, dude, since you weren't here." Parson rubbed his short-cropped black hair for emphasis.

Parson, Hutchinson, Bennett, and Dobey stood in a circle in the sand at the foot of the stairs that led from the safe house's deck, where the blood trail vanished.

Bennett said, "I agree, Lancelot. Henderson and Mitchell want you both, Hutchinson. Your absence this morning was likely unknown and unexpected to them, no doubt. They believe the only way to get you is to keep your partner alive – for the time being." Hutch glared at him, but couldn't fault their reasoning and conclusion.

Hutch sighed and looked out over the ocean. "Yeah, I keep telling myself he's alive." He sighed and looked at the Englishman. "But we really don't know, now do we, Clive?" he asked with bitterness. Without warning, he hit his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "Shit! I forgot! I'm due in court at 11!"

Dobey checked his wristwatch. "I'll call Clements. Maybe he can get a continuance." The captain started the climb up the stairs. He stopped about halfway up when Thompson ran out onto the deck.

"Hutchinson!" the tall, stocky man yelled. "Got a call for you! Says his name is Mitchell!"

The big, blond former track star showed his prowess as he took the deck stairs three at a time, pushing by Dobey so hard that he almost forced the captain over the handrail. Recovering quickly, the larger man was only a few steps behind his detective.

Hutch yanked the receiver out of Rogers' hand. He took two breaths to settle his nerves and his stomach. "Mitchell? Where is he? I want him, now." He spoke with barely controlled rage.

"Ah, Big Swede, so nice to speak with you again, too. If you want your partner, you have to come get him."

"Prove to me he's alive, and I'll be there." Hutch ignored the sweat dripping into his eyes and making his new white shirt cling to his body. _Don't antagonize this jerk-off. That could make things worse, _he told himself. In the kitchen, Dobey carefully picked up the extension, covered the mouthpiece, and put the receiver to his ear.

"Henderson and I thought you'd say something like that. We have him right here. Just woke him up from a little nap. Looking a bit peaked, though. He's got a brand new scar to add to his collection."

Hutch's grip tightened tenfold on the receiver. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to control the fire that raged in his gut and lungs.

"Okay, Starsky," Mitchell continued, "let your pussy partner know you're alive, if not well."

Silence for a few seconds. Then Hutch and Dobey heard what sounded like a slap and a punch, followed by a strangled yelp. Hutch felt the knots in his stomach trying to escape through his mouth. He gulped hard.

"Come on, Wild Thing, make it easier on yourself. Talk to your partner." This was from a different voice, a bit removed from the phone receiver. _Henderson, you son of a bitch! Talk, Starsk, don't let him beat you any more, partner! Please!_

Hutch and Dobey waited breathlessly for a few more seconds. Then they heard Starsky's pained voice: "Hutch, don't come –" The rest of the words were muffled. Then two thuds, the second one heavier than the first.

Hutch began to shake. "Okay, Mitchell, you proved he's alive. Where?"

There was a pause before Mitchell spoke. "Come alone, Pier 35. Stop by the crane. Get out and walk toward the end of the pier. Wear just a t-shirt, pants, and shoes – no jacket. Leave that bazooka of yours behind. No tricks, or Starsky dies before you do. It's eleven hundred hours now. Be here by noon, or Starsky dies before you do. You see, we would prefer to execute you at the same time, so you can watch each other's head disintegrate." Mitchell broke the connection.

Hutch was repelled and nauseated by the gloating tone of the assassin as he dictated the terms. He had trouble replacing the receiver in its cradle, finally fumbling it in place. _I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. _He opened his eyes to see five pairs of them staring at him. He chose Dobey's to concentrate on. With fire and authority, he said, "Captain, we do as he says. To the letter. As long as we do, there's a chance I can keep Starsky alive and get us out of this." _Starsky, I'm coming, buddy, stay alive._

Dobey knew it was useless to talk Hutch out of this. Besides, he was right and they didn't have time to mount an offensive. "Okay, we do as he says, but we add a few touches of our own."

Time: 1105

Shoppers ignored the dirty VW Bus in the parking lot strip mall on the outskirts of the city despite its psychedelic paint job. Those buses were still a common site in California, and they all tended to look alike.

Inside the Bus, one man watched as another taunted their prisoner he had blindfolded and bound like a prisoner of the Viet Cong – arms tied tightly together above the elbows behind the back, a sturdy stick thrust between the elbows and back, with wrists and ankles bound as well. It was virtually impossible to attempt an escape, especially when compounded by jagged, overwhelming pain and despair.

"So, Wild Thing, how does it feel to have your _own _jaw broken?"

"Henderson, you're still as stupid now as you were in 'Nam. My jaw ain't broke." Starsky decided to taunt back. He braced for a blow and wasn't disappointed when he was struck sharply across the face again. The bleeding from the laceration on his cheek increased. _Damn! When am I gonna learn to keep my mouth shut?_ he asked himself as he slumped as far to the right as the stick would let him. _Hutch has always said my mouth gets me in too much trouble. Oh, Hutch, please don't come after me! Don't let these goons get both of us! Let me die alone!_ He began to wish for unconsciousness and a quick death.

But Henderson wouldn't let him sink away. He sensed Starsky was fading out, so he opened an ammonia capsule under his nose. Starsky reared back, hitting his head on something metallic and unforgiving. Still, he didn't pass out.

"Now, tell me something, Wild Thing. What is so special about you and your partner that the police department is willing to have so many sacrificial lambs? Guess what? We took out your two cop guards and your nigger friend today."

Starsky did the only thing he could do - he spat in Henderson's face. "You and your partner there are the lamest excuses for human beings. Why are you _doin'_ this? Gggunther's history. Is this some kind of sick revenge?"

Henderson laughed with profound malice as he wiped Starsky's spittle off his face. "Don't think this is about revenge, Wild Thing. Getting a broken jaw rather than twenty of hard time in Leavenworth was a bargain. No, this is about making one stubborn son of a bitch die like he should've done months ago." The assassin wadded up a filthy rag and crammed it into his prisoner's mouth. "Mitch, where's the cattle prod?"

Starsky emitted a low and drawn-out moan. With the news about Huggy Bear, which he had feared all along and was now confirmed, and knowing Hutch was coming to his own doom, abject despair joined the virtually constant pain he had experienced for almost three months. Unconsciousness didn't take him for several very long minutes.

5.3

Time: 1157

Hutchinson's squad car squealed to a stop by the crane on Pier 35. He began breathing again after a check of the time revealed he had arrived with three minutes to spare. The ten-minute layover at the 19th precinct had not eaten up a significant amount of time.

_Starsky, I'm almost there. We'll get out of this mess,_ he thought as he scanned the area with an expert eye.

Pier 35 was in a section of the docks that was not in use at the time. The warehouse associated with it was empty except for several forklifts and a dozen empty crates. The crane was parked at the head of the pier. It was a long walk to the end of the pier.

Hutch checked his watch again. _11:58_. _Two more minutes, Starsk. Hang in there, buddy. Don't die on me, I need you to go on, for me to go on._ Adrenalin prevented the tears from forming but didn't hide the shakiness in his voice as he reported in. "I'm here. Everything looks quiet. Hope I'm coming in loud and clear." He reached down to check one last time that the small gun wedged in his boot was still in position.

Finally, the appointed time arrived. Hutch slowly got out of the squad car. He stood there in the hazy midday California sun. The air was heavy with moisture, and there were storm clouds gathering offshore. He surveyed the area again. Seeing nothing unusual, he started the walk to the end of the pier, staying midway between the warehouse and the ocean.

About a mile away, Dobey and Parson sat in the front seat, with Bennett in the back of the partners' sedan, listening closely to the transmission from the wire concealed on Hutch's lower abdomen. Even though gain and volume were at maximum to compensate for the distance, the reception was spotty at best. Dobey, sweating profusely from the humid air, tension, and worry, swabbed his face with his ubiquitous handkerchief.

"Okay, he's started walkin'. Parson, check again that everyone's ready to roll."

Parson keyed the handheld radio. "All units, check in. It's almost showtime, dudes." Rogers and Thompson and the three black-and-whites called in ready.

Parson glanced at his watch. _12:03_.

_12:03_. Hutchinson let his right hand drop to his side after checking his watch again. He was about a third of the way to pier's end. Nothing moved but him and the water. There were no sounds but the thud of his boots on wood and the gentle lapping of waves against pilings.

He stopped, sensing that something had finally changed, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He slowly made a 360-degree turn, extending his senses to detect anything out of the ordinary. Once more facing the end of the pier, he resumed walking.

Two steps later, the pier gave way beneath him and he plunged into the dirty water.

The three men in the sedan swore at the massive static that came over the receiver.

Just as Hutchinson's head breached the surface after his submersion, a club smacked the side of his head. He lost consciousness and went limp.

One man in scuba gear kept the detective's head above water, while another applied a nose clip and thrust the mouthpiece to a small aqualung into his mouth, taping it in place. The two men, supporting Hutchinson between them, sank beneath the surface.

"Move in, dammit, MOVE IN! Something's wrong!" bellowed Dobey frantically. Parson immediately keyed in the code. Almost simultaneously, five cars started their engines. Parson peeled out ahead of the pack, making it to the pier in less than two minutes.

Dobey had the door open and was stepping out of the car before it had come to a complete stop. The other cars rolled in. As the officers departed their vehicles, Dobey directed them to fan out and search the pier and surrounding area. He took off down the pier with Bennett and Parson on his tail.

Bennett spotted the neatly cut, gaping hole in the pier and pulled Dobey back roughly before he fell through. The captain was about to lay into the Englishman but paused so he could follow the downward gaze of his detective.

"I think one might surmise what has happened to our Detective Hutchinson," he said with a mixture of sarcasm and anger.

"Parson," the frustrated captain snapped, "get on the horn to the Coast Guard. See if they made it to the area yet. Tell 'em we think our kidnappers got wet feet. MOVE IT!"

As Parson raced back up the pier, Dobey and Bennett scanned the vicinity. Dobey rubbed the top of his head, hoping it would calm him. It didn't.

Time: 1237

Jimmy Gilmore had just finished interviewing the captain of the merchant ship carrying Egyptian artifacts for a traveling museum show. He stood at the top of the gangplank and looked around one last time before leaving the ship. Movement two piers over caught his attention. Squinting to improve his sight, he saw two men in scuba gear lift a third who appeared to be in streetclothes out of the water.

_Great, a rescue!_ He headed down the gangplank. The increasingly oppressive humidity slowed him down in the race to his car, but he got to the pier in question to see a white panel truck leaving. _Where're the emergency vehicles?_ He looked down the pier and saw nothing. He decided to pursue the truck. He was about eight carlengths behind it when something flew out the driver's window. Curious, he stopped where he thought the discarded object might be. He found it quickly. _Looks like a microphone, like the cops or spies use._ He gulped when he realized what this meant. He continued to follow the truck and would call the police first chance he got. It never occurred to him that perhaps the device was still working.

5.4

Time: 1405

Hutchinson could see the two faces in the squad car now, for the first time. They looked like any mother's sons. Until one stuck the barrel of an automatic gun out the window and fired, leaving behind a sea of blood. He could see his own gun fire in retaliation, but the bullets didn't go farther than a few feet before dropping harmlessly to the ground. He could hear that sea of blood percolating into the concrete. He could feel Gunther – _no, it's Starsky_ – lying on his right side, curled in a fetal position, the headwaters for the sea.

_What the hell's going on?_ He began to panic, to shiver, to throb in pain. His eyes shot open. In a split second, he went from one nightmare to another.

He was in a small, dimly lit, windowless room. He was on his knees, butt on heels, leaning against a post, wearing nothing but his shorts. Rope was wrapped around the wrist of the cracked cast and his right bare wrist. His ankles were tied as well.

There, hanging by his thumbs, feet just inches off the ground, was his partner, head lolling forward, body twitching. Blood, both old and fresh, covered the left side of his face and chest. There were rope burns above his elbows and around his wrists. He was clad only in droopy, bloodstained scrub pants.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. He let the vomit come, hoping its release would take with it some of his guilt, his incompetence with it. Before he was through, someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked. He couldn't help but breathe in some of the emesis. Coughing to try to expel the foreign material in his airways, he stared at the soulless, psychotic eyes of Horace Harvey Mitchell.

"Got you both now, you dumb-fuck cop. You two are going to die, and I get my life back." Mitchell released his hold on Hutch's fair hair. "You disobeyed the rules I set down. Your partner will pay the price." In one incredibly swift motion, Mitchell raised the weapon they had confiscated from Hutch's boot and fired at Starsky.

"NOOOOO!" cried Hutch and he fell toward Mitchell, too late to ruin his aim. He heard Starsky cry out feebly. _Fuck me! I come to get you out of this, and now you're hurt worse because of me! _Hutch forced himself to look at his partner.

The bullet had left a deep flesh wound in Starsky's left triceps muscle. Hutch was relieved when he saw it wasn't bleeding much. But he knew as soon as his partner's arms came down – if ever – the bleeding would increase.

"You sick son of a bitch! Why punish him? Punish me instead. _I'm_ the one who brought in the gun."

"Okay." In an instant, Mitchell fired the pistol a second time. The bullet lodged itself in the flesh of Hutch's outer left thigh. He screamed at the initial shock, then his leg went numb.

Mitchell grabbed a thatch of the straw-colored hair again, and used it to pull Hutch back into his previous position. "Frankie, bring Wild Thing around so we can tell them about their last half-hour on this planet."

Henderson, who had been lurking in a shadowed corner of the room, came forth and stood before the dark-haired detective. He snapped open an ammonia capsule beneath Starsky's nose. Henderson, in order to keep Starsky's head still, snatched him by his curls and forced him to breathe the foul-smelling fumes.

It took the detective several moments to orient himself. The awareness of pain came rushing back, this time with the addition of a burning in his left arm. Bile climbed to his throat when he recognized Henderson. He searched the room with his eyes, which almost immediately latched onto his partner's.

Hutch watched the expression in his friend's eyes go from hope to anger to emptiness. He had to look away briefly, because he couldn't stand to see his partner giving up. _Oh God, he's dead already!_ Hutch felt profound grief welling in his gut, and the knots twisted themselves even tighter.

"Hey, Big Swede, you should've been here earlier." Henderson sneered. "Your boy here went crazy. We left him in this room while we picked you up. Yeah, he freaked – started hyperventilating. Seems he's got claustrophobia. Prob'ly because he got buried alive for a while in 'Nam. Was in one of those VC tunnels, weren't you, Wild Thing?" He laughed, enjoying the panic he was helping to kindle in Starsky. "Yep, the day after you catch me with that sweet young thing, you and your buddy get caught in a tunnel after he trips a booby trap. But he's dead, and you're by your lonesome, surrounded by dirt and VC and no air. He ever tell you about that, Swede? Heard he'd only sleep outside for weeks." He laughed again, this time sounding like a depraved troll. He had gone over the edge without Mitchell's steadying influence.

_That explains a lot, _thought Hutch.

"That's enough, Frankie. Let's get on with the business at hand. David Starsky, Kenneth Hutchinson, you have been sentenced to death by James Marshall Gunther. We are here to carry out that sentence." He paused, looking for a reaction. Starsky was too busy trying to control his compulsion to hyperventilate to listen to Mitchell. Hutchinson kept his face unchanged, controlling his revulsion to the insanity glowing in Mitchell's brown eyes.

"But you are to be punished first for not dying as you should have. Once my partner and I leave, you will have approximately thirty minutes before this building explodes," he droned. "You may try to escape, but be warned that that action has its consequences. If by some chance you do escape, we will be waiting for you, ready to carry out your executions." He cleared his throat. "Any questions?" He sounded almost like a game show host explaining the rules to the contestants.

"Why don't you just kill me now, you friggin' idiot?" Starsky finally spoke, voice hoarse and emotionless. Mitchell shoved Frankie out of the way so he could crash his fist into the detective's abdomen.

_Starsk, watch your mouth!_ Hutch tried to communicate to him. But Starsky was ignoring him. "Starsk, shut up!" He let out a wounded scream when Henderson kicked him in a kidney.

Continuing to ignore his screaming partner, Starsky carried on in breathless agony. "Kill me…any way you wanna…for as long as it takes…just let my partner go. I'll make him promise…not to go after you…to leave you alone. Don't kill or hurt anybody else. You can go about your business. How 'bout it?"

"No deals, Wild Thing. It's my way, no exception. The contract was for both of you. If we don't fulfill its terms, we'll never get another one. Besides, it's personal now." Mitchell spat in Starsky's face. He didn't react.

Mitchell nonchalantly checked his watch. "It's almost fourteen fifteen hours. You'll be dead by fourteen fifty. Let's go, Frankie." Frankie laughed dementedly when he turned out the weak light and closed the door behind him.

The partners said nothing in the dark for a few moments. Starsky spoke first. "Hutch, I told you not to come. Now you're gonna die, too. It…it shoulda only been me."

The lifelessness in Starsky's voice crushed Hutch's soul. _No fucking wonder. How much more could he possibly take? _He considered that maybe his optimistic, resilient partner had reached his limit. He fought back against the despondency that thought engendered in him. "Starsk, don't give up, buddy. You're not dead yet. And that means there's hope. I need you. I can't get out of here on my own. But you have to make the decision. Is it _really_ 'me and thee,' or has it been a pathetic joke for all these years?" _That's right, Hutch, make him angry. Maybe that'll start his engine running again. I know you, Starsk, and you haven't reached that limit! I won't let you!_

Starsky, who thought he was beyond feeling any longer, was surprised that his best friend's words scorched him. "Too many hurt by all this. I got nothin' left any more. No life. All I've ever wanted was to be a cop. With you as my partner, it was perfect. But they're already in the process of kicking me off the force. You partnered with Meredith – " Saying her name evoked memories of her – her smell, smile, voice, intelligence, strength and vulnerability, tenderness and toughness, love and acceptance of him. He was heartbroken that he had to leave her. He let his defeat overtake him.

There was Terry, right there with him. She was difficult to see through the smoke and ashes of his heart, but she was unmistakable. _Don't take back the gift you gave me. And I do like Meredith, very much._

Hutch now knew that one thing, that one final spark, missing from his partner. "Starsky, don't let them win, damn you! Fight back! You'll never be a cop again unless you do!" Hutch shouted vehemently. "If you're gonna die, let it be as a cop! Where is my friend, my brother, who won't go down easy, huh?" Hutch's voice started to give out, but he persisted. "Don't leave this way, Starsky. I'll never forgive you if you do!" Hutch despised himself for even thinking such a thing, but he and Starsky had to confront the truth.

Hutch's fiery words sought out and found the lone ember in his partner's all-but-dead spirit. The ember began to glow brighter, as Hutch's words stoked it, gave it new life. "What the fuck did you say to me?" Starsky's question sparkled with quiet anger.

_He's hooked! Now to reel him in…_"You heard me. If you die like this, those people who suffered because of these assholes won't get even a hint of justice. And you'll die without my forgiveness. And I'll regret ever being partners with you. Do you understand me?" Hutch ached at the harsh words, but he had to protect his valuables. _Maybe this is how I protect him, safeguarding his soul. Hell of a way to do it…_

"Just wait till I get down from here! You got some explainin' to do, _friend, partner._" He struggled against the restraints encircling his thumbs and cried out in anger.

_Caught you!_ Hutch exclaimed to himself, delighted to hear the fury in his partner's voice.

Time: 1418

Jimmy Gilmore sat in his Ford Maverick and sweated. A storm was rolling in and the humidity had gone beyond oppressive. From a distance, he watched the panel truck he had followed for miles, until they were out of the city. He couldn't decide what to do. He _thought_ the guy they carried into the huge, abandoned, and dilapidated mansion was Detective Hutchinson. But he wasn't sure. He didn't want to cause any trouble for anybody if this was innocent. Besides, he wanted the exclusive.

Jimmy, you are a fuckin' idiot! No matter who it is, they're up to no good! Call the cops, for Pete's sake.

He started the engine and began his search for the nearest public telephone. He would ask for Bennett at Metro. _Maybe I'll call Susanna at KZAM. If I tell her about this one, maybe she could get me a job at her station when I get fired. Better yet, maybe she'll finally go out with me._

The rain began to fall in slow, large droplets.

5.5

Time: 1420

The curly-haired captive struggled harder against the ropes. He could hear his partner's small cries. _Must be tryin' to get the ropes off his cast. He better hope he gets free first. I don't have to take that shit from him._ His struggles were finally strong enough to tip over a bucket full of ice-cold water, drenching Hutch.

The kneeling detective gasped at the sudden assault of freezing wetness. His cast was quickly disintegrating, and his shorts, now transparent, clung to his body.

"Hutch, babe, you okay? Talk to me! You okay?" A frantic Starsky quickly forgot his anger at his partner. But not knowing what had happened to Hutch brought him back to the reality of the small, dark, close room. He began to feel the panic, to hyperventilate again.

Hutch was out of his cast, then the rest of his ropes, in seconds. _Those turkeys did this on purpose. They _want _us to try escaping, and they knew we would. _He could hear Starsky breathing deeply and rapidly. "I'm okay, Gordo. I'm loose. I'll turn on the light." He stood, but immediately fell, left leg collapsing. He cursed angrily.

"Huuutch!" Panic and concern dueled for dominance in his voice.

Hutch "walked" on his right knee, dragging his left leg behind him. He found the door quickly. He felt around and finally touched the bottom of a broken switchplate. He stretched until he found the switch itself and flipped it upwards.

The dim bulb illuminated the room, revealing a kicking and manic Starsky. Even in the low light, Hutch could see a small twinkle in his friend's eyes. "Dammit, Starsk, be still! You're just making things worse."

"Open the damn door, willya?" he shouted, exasperated with Hutch. "But be careful! Remember what they said about consequences!"

Obeying his partner, Hutch turned the knob, pushed the door open, and hit the floor.

Nothing happened. He pushed himself back to his right knee and made it over to Starsky. He could figure no other way to stand than to grab hold of the waist of Starsky's pants and pull himself up. "Sorry, buddy, but this'll hurt you more than it'll hurt me." As he pulled his largely uncooperative 180 pounds up, Starsky cried out in maximum torment. "Fight it, Starsk! Don't pass out! We don't have time, buddy!"

His partner's touch gave him the strength he needed to stay conscious and endure. _I'll do it, Hutch, I'll do it for you. But I'm running on empty here!_

Hutch was up, holding Starsky just under his ribcage. He hyperextended his head to determine how the ropes on Starsky's thumbs were fastened to the pole from which he hung. _Hooks. Good. All I have to do is lift._ "Okay, partner, you have to help me here. I have to lift you, but then you need to bring your arms forward. Think you can manage that?" He took the feeble grunt as a "yes." "Okay, here goes nothin'." He took a deep breath, and screamed as he raised the 180 pounds. The pain in his left arm escalated to unimaginable heights and his left leg chose this time to wake up. But a second later, he was rewarded with Starsky's arms falling against his shoulders.

They landed on the floor together in a heap. They panted from the exertion and groaned from the unrelenting pain. They let a minute pass to recover. "How much time you think we got left?" Starsky eked out between gulps of air. He grimaced as sensation began to return to his arms.

"Enough." Hutch held Starsky's eyes for just a moment, expecting to see defeat or resignation, but instead he saw hope and fight. He turned his eyes to inspect his partner's thumbs. They were purple and swollen. _Damn, he could lose both of them!_ "Thumbs hurt much?"

"Naw, pretty numb. But my arms are startin' to wake up, and it hurts like a sonuvabitch. Ready to get outta here?"

"Absolutely. Let's go turkey hunting." Hutch stood slowly, using Starsky's shoulders to help him. Once steady on his uninjured leg, he helped Starsky stand. They leaned against each other for a few moments as the activity made them both dizzy.

"Before we head outta here, I think they have some surprises for us," Starsky warned. "Prob'ly booby traps. Prob'ly real nasty ones. Those fuckers are sick. We gotta be real careful, partner."

"Starsk, we don't have much time to be careful."

"Okay, then, last one out's a rotten egg."

"Better rotten than fried."

Hutch led the way by half a step, dragging his left leg behind him. Starsky staggered and stumbled, coming close to but never quite falling. They entered a large, empty room with a bay window. Looking out through the filthy panes, they could see the rain and could tell they were most likely on the third floor. Hutch looked back at the room they had just left and said, "Walk-in closet."

"It's a walk-out now." Starsky shivered, recalling the closeness of his recent prison.

They headed for the door. Just as they got to the threshold, Starsky tripped on his own feet and stumbled into Hutch. The latter grasped for the doorframe, twisting in such a way that his left leg went out the door first. It triggered a trapdoor, and his leg went through the opening, hand sliding down the frame, buttocks closing in on the floor. He felt something sharp cut him from ankle to knee. He screamed.

Starsky, his back now against the wall just to the right of the doorway, yelled with alarm, "Hutch, what is it? You okay?"

Through gritted teeth, the freshly injured man said, "Something just cut me up my leg. Grab me, Starsk, I'm losing my grip!"

Hurriedly, Starsky tried to get his arms to work. They flopped around like landed fish. He put his back against the wall again, and slid down to the floor. He scooted on his butt until he was in position to wrap his legs around Hutch's waist.

"Hurry, Starsk!" Hutch was holding on by two fingers, and they were slipping.

"Gotcha!" Hutch's waist now firmly between Starsky's legs, the brown-haired man performed a backward somersault. _Must have a reserve tank, _thought Starsky.Hutch found himself back in the room, noting he was going to have a few new bruises thanks to that stunt. He saw blood coursing from both the bullet and the newest wounds. He turned to Starsky, who was curled knees to chin, rocking slightly and crying through tightly closed eyes.

"I think you just qualified for the U.S. Olympic gymnastic team with that move, slick." Hutch's attempt at distracting Starsky did not have the desired effect.

Barely audible, Starsky said, "Oh God, Hutch, I hurt so much, everywhere."

Hutch crawled over to his friend and put his head on his shoulder. "I know. But we'll be out of this soon, and you can get some medicine." _I could sure use some of that narcotic sweetness myself… _ He began to crave it, not only for its relief of his physical pain, but for its relief of his psychic agony. He stayed for a few seconds longer, then crawled to the threshold and looked into the pit. His stomach rolled when he saw numerous wooden stakes, all whittled to long, sharp points. "Starsk, what did you call sharpened stakes in 'Nam?"

"Wha'?"

"You know, punjab…"

"Punji sticks."

"You just saved me from falling into a pit full of 'em."

"Any time." Starsky started to jerk and heave, so Hutch crawled back to him, happy to leave the grisly sight.

"Starsk, I'm bleeding pretty bad. I need your pants."

"No way. Not for sale."

But, Starsk old pal, my shorts aren't enough."

"If I'm gonna die" – spasm and heave – "I'm gonna die with dignity." He jerked again. "Sometimes, Blintz, you take my dignity too lightly." He went into an unexpectedly long and severe paroxysm of pain; Hutch draped his good arm over Starsky's shoulder, comforting him the best he could.

Starsky panted heavily for close to a minute after the spasm ceased. "Didn't think I could hurt worse. Was wrong." He winced and breathed through his bared teeth. "Aw, screw it. Take 'em. But you're gonna hafta get 'em off me."

Hutch was beginning to feel woozy from pain and blood loss. _What I wouldn't give for a taste of horse right now. _With some urgency, he prodded Starsky to unfurl his legs. The latter cried out yet again, but straightened his legs enough for the pants to come off. Hutch untied the string. "Starsk, you have to help me pull 'em off."

"Jesus Christ, Hutch, do I gotta do _everything_?" Working together, the pants were off in less than a minute.

"Sorry, pal, but you'll have to help me wrap 'em around my leg."

"Guess I got my answer. What would you do without me, partner?"

Hutch watched as his partner struggled with his malfunctioning upper extremities to tie the pants above the bullet wound. Again working together, they fashioned something akin to a pressure dressing/tourniquet. With what little length was left, they spiraled it down Hutch's leg.

Time: 1430

"Dispatch, this is Detective Bennett. Patch me through to Captain Dobey immediately! This is an emergency!" Bennett's normally calm, proper façade was distinctly animated.

"Dobey," came the loud, gruff rumble over the radio.

"Captain, Bennett here. I just fielded a call from that reporter Mr. Gilmore. He seems to have spotted something very suspicious at the docks just after noon. Two scuba divers helping a third man in clothes out of the water. He followed the chaps to an abandoned mansion. On the way there, they seem to have disposed of a body microphone. I think we have our men!"

"Where, dammit?" Dobey allowed himself to feel a small dollop of hope.

"Out State Route 344, past the town of Currier. It will take Parson and me at least twenty minutes to get there at best speed."

"It'll take me thirty. Go on, I'll have a couple of black-and-whites in your area respond as well. I'll meet you there." Bennett signed off. Dobey chose another line on his telephone. "Let me speak to Sheriff Palmer now. Captain Dobey, BCPD. It's an emergency."

Time: 1432

"Enough rest, Starsk. We don't have all day." Hutch was wearying of fighting the pain and the siren song of narcotics. But his will to survive and his love for his partner pushed him on.

"'Kay. Hutch, we gotta be real careful. They prob'ly got this place rigged a thousand ways. The punji sticks were prob'ly just one of a lot of booby traps."

"Now I know why they made it so easy for us to escape from that closet. They want us to suffer before we die."

Starsky could detect a hint of pessimism in his partner's voice. "That ain't gonna happen, you hear me?" he demanded. "Now, we gotta watch for trip wires, look all around, includin' up. We gotta listen for sounds that don't fit. We're gonna get out of this. Hell, we've come too damn far." He took a deep breath and coughed harshly. "First we gotta get outta this room." He looked around the room for ideas. _The door!_

The door to the bedroom was half off its hinges. Starsky willed himself to stand and walk the few steps over to it. The wood of the doorframe was rotting, so it took little effort to pull the door off its remaining hinges. He managed to let it fall over the pit despite still uncooperative hands but improving arms. The activity winded him, but he pressed on. "Come on, Hutch, all ya gotta do is walk. No broad jumpin'. You can do it." He went to his partner's side to help him stand. Hutch inhaled sharply when he put a few pounds of pressure on his left leg.

"I'll go first, make sure it's okay," Starsky said. The door barely covered the pit, so he crossed carefully, somehow keeping his stumbling gait controlled. Across the hallway from the bedroom's entrance was the landing of a staircase. Starsky checked the area thoroughly, then knelt down and rested his elbows on the edge of the door. His fresh gunshot wound had woken up, and was bleeding slowly but steadily. "Hutch, hurry, wouldja?"

Hutch took a deep breath in, held it, and limped hurriedly across the door. When he felt the door slip, he increased his speed and was across.

Unfortunately, Starsky couldn't afford to move, and Hutch's knee met his forehead. The force knocked him over and he tumbled down several steps, while Hutch crashed into the landing wall.

"Damn, Starsk, why didn't you get out of the way? You okay?"

Through gritted teeth came his angry reply. "If I hadn't'a held that door, you blond buffalo, you'd be shish kabob right now. Shit it hurts!"

"What?"

"Everyfuckin'thing, whaddya think?" Starsky barked. He began to put his twisted limbs back in working position when he saw a paper-thin, almost transparent wire inches from his nose. "Hutch," he whispered frantically.

"What is it _now_," Hutch said testily as he worked on righting himself.

"Uh, trip wire on the step below me." His breathing became slow and shallow.

Now standing, Hutch's eyes widened in horror and fear. "What's it lead to? Can you get to it?"

Starsky slowly moved his head to follow the wire all the way to the right, then to the left. That was when he saw the wire was attached to the wall but continued downward, doubtless to some sort of explosive. _Goddamn it, I'm back in Indian country_, he swore to himself. "There's somethin' there, but I can't get close enough to see it." Then, without warning, he slid an inch closer to the wire.

The partners held their breaths for almost a minute. Hutch broke the silence. "Starsk, can you feel for it?"

"Do you think I'm nuts? I'm not puttin' my hand down there! I might set it off!"

"Well, I don't see any other choice. Do you?" For a short-lived moment, Hutch found looking at Starsky's bare ass quite amusing. The moment had long passed when Starsky said, "Here goes nothin'."

The brunet man worked his tingling right hand under the wire and moved it to the left cautiously until he thought he felt a two-inch-thick bump on the step. His thumb was still not functioning, but his fingers could do some large motor movements. With great care, he wedged his ring finger under the bump, clasped down on it with his index and middle fingers, then flung it away as hard and as fast as he could.

The small device exploded in a thousand sparkles as soon as it separated from the wire less than a foot from Starsky'head. He exhaled in relief. Hutch staggered back a few inches.

"These guys are really beginnin' to piss me off!"

"Starsk, they're just messing with our heads. This is just their sick humor."

"Yeah, I know. Let's go." Starsky slowly got to his feet. He wiped his sweaty brow and looked back over his shoulder at Hutch. He, too, was perspiring heavily, and was alarmingly pale. "Come on down. I'll walk right in front of you. That way, if you trip, I'll break your fall - maybe."

Hutch grabbed the deteriorating handrail and started down the steps, one at a time. "Don't do me any favors." Starsky grinned up at him. Right hands on the rail, they slowly descended the steps, both keeping their eyes peeled for anything suspicious.

Time: 1438

"How did you convince the boss man to let you use the chopper to cover this story?" asked the pilot of his pretty passenger.

With a sly grin on her painted red lips, Susanna Beck drawled, "I promised I'd sleep with him."

"WHAT?"

She laughed a big Texas guffaw. "His definition of sleep ain't the same as mine, but he doesn't know that!" She enjoyed the you're-a-smart-one grin from her companion. "Hey, is it safe to fly in one of these things in rain like this?"

"Not really. Flight time should be pretty short, and the storm's already passing. We'll be fine." He had flown in much worse weather as a medevac chopper pilot in Vietnam. "Check your seatbelt again. We ought to be there in about ten minutes. Rick, check your belt again, man. I promise I'll fly this bird so you can get great footage from the safety of your seat."

Time: 1440

The partners were nearing the bottom of the stairs from the third floor. Neither had identified anything out of the ordinary, either by sight or sound.

"How much time you think we got, partner?"

"Probably not much. Wish we had our watches."

"Ah, watches. I haven't worn one since…the garage. Hey, where is it, anyway?"

"You and your stupid, elaborate watches. Don't worry, it's in safekeeping at my place."

"Hutch, you don't have a place any more!" Starsky's voice easily betrayed his feelings of loss and disappointment.

"Oh, yeah, right. Well, buddy, I…" Something tickled his fingers. Instinctively, he jerked his hand away and almost immediately heard a _thong!_ come from somewhere ahead of him and Starsky.

The curly-haired man heard the sound as well but was unable to identify the source before an arrow pierced his left side. He grunted in surprise, tripped down the last step, and fell onto the filthy, lumpy rug on the spacious second floor landing, with Hutchinson tumbling on top of him.

"Hutch, I'm hit! Get off me! Where the hell did _this_ thing come from?"

The big blond rolled to the right. He lay on his back for a few moments before helping Starsky turn on his right side. "Forgive me, buddy," he pleaded to Starsky's back, "but I think I tripped a wire! It must've been on the outside of the rail! I'm so sorry!" He didn't try to stop the tears.

"Izz okay. Don't hurt." _Much._ "It's a fuckin' _arrow_, prob'ly from a crossbow. Just like the VC used to do in 'Nam." He cursed under his breath, closed his eyes but only for a short moment as he saw an arrow sticking into the windpipe of one of his Army buddies. Trembling from the memory, he asked, "Is it all the way through?"

Hutch wiped the tears from his eyes and inspected the lightly bleeding wound. "Yeah. I can see an inch, inch and a half of metal shaft. I'm so…"

"Babe, not your fault," Starsky interrupted, "just not your fault. I don't blame you, even though you are a klutz. We got more important things to worry about. 'Kay?"

"Yeah, okay," Hutch said, though not convincing enough for his partner. "I think we better leave the arrow where it is."

"Yep. Guess I got my own handle, huh?"

"Personally, I'd rather see you with the love types many years from now, buddy."

The partners helped each other up, each functioning for the other when and where he could not. They stood for a moment to catch their breaths. Hutch coughed harshly, and his airways seemed to burn. Starsky, worried look on his face, surveyed the view from the landing.

The stairs actually opened into a hallway that had rooms on either end. On the wall opposite the steps was a large, stained glass window that ran from floor to ceiling. Next to it was a built-in cherrywood armoire. _That's where they rigged the fuckin' crossbow._ Peering around the edge of the banister, Starsky looked down the hall and saw the base of the punji sticks. He shuddered at remembering how close his friend had come to being skewered.

Hutch had his breath back. "I bet the stairs to the first floor are right under these." He turned to head down the hallway. With his second step with his right foot, he heard a muffled _click_.

Starsky heard it, too. "DON"T MOVE! Don't shift your weight! Don't even BREATHE!" He frantically scanned for something to use to disarm what was probably some sort of anti-personnel mine. _Nothing! Dammit!_

"Starsk, hurry! I can't stay like this. My leg…" He stopped, cognizant that Starsky knew this already.

_The arrow! That oughta work!_ Starsky snorted when he realized he didn't have the grip yet to hold something that slender. He slid his feet along the rug to avoid stepping on a mine himself. In front of his partner, he looked into the fatigued, pained, pale blue eyes and said, "You gotta pull this out. I need it. No time to look for anything else."

Hutch's expression plainly said _NO!_ But Starsky's resolute and forgiving look gave him the courage. "Don't mean nothin', Hutch."

The blond man grasped the shaft of the arrow, blinked his eyes several times to clear his vision blurred by salty tears, and silently and needlessly asked the dark blue eyes opposite him for his forgiveness. He concentrated on maintaining the same amount of pressure on the mine, and pulled the arrow out of his partner.

Starsky, ready for the pain, still yelped loudly and collapsed. He narrowly missed kneeing the mine. Now bleeding from the two new and just enlarged holes in his body, Starsky worked the rug back over the mine. _Yep, just like a homemade VC mine._ _Enough to blow off his foot – or blow out my eyeballs. _"Teeth." Hutch put the bloodied arrow between Starsky's teeth. "Hold it up." Hutch grabbed the rug as he was told.

Time: 1447

The sweat now poured off both of them. Starsky could feel his partner trembling and knew he only had seconds before Hutch collapsed. Holding the arrow between the palms of his hands, he situated it so the arrowhead and several inches of shaft were exposed out the pinky side. He bent over and quickly but carefully inserted the arrowhead, flat side parallel to the mine, under the pressure plate. When he felt what he was probing for, he gave the arrow a little jerk. "Got it!"_ I hope!_

Hutch collapsed and began to hyperventilate to compensate for not breathing. Starsky didn't move – he just stared at the disarmed mine.

A few seconds later, the dark-haired man felt compelled to stare at the armoire. He had a suspicion that there was something more to that than just the hiding place of a crossbow. He groaned and moaned as he struggled to his feet and headed for the armoire. Without checking for booby traps, he flung its doors open.

Next to the crossbow, he identified an incendiary device hooked to a timer. The timer's digital display read _00:00:20_ in bright red. A quick check showed the device was bolted in place.

_00:00:18_. Starsky shuffled the few steps to where Hutch lay on the floor. "Come on, Blintz, we gotta get out of this place." Hutch immediately comprehended the all too evident urgency in Starsky's tone. The latter offered his friend his arms.

_00:00:15_. Hutch grabbed hold of Starsky's arm with his one functioning hand. He pulled himself up as Starsky raised his arms.

_00:00:11_. Neither spoke. Starsky, worn out, had run out of ideas. He looked to Hutch for one.

_00:00:09_. Hutch told Starsky his idea with a quick eye movement that also said, _Trust me_. The dark curls bobbed up and down once – message understood, received, and accepted.

Time: 1449

Parson silently swore at the continuing rain as steered the Ford Sedan into the entrance of the long driveway to the mansion just a few yards behind the sheriff's four-wheel-drive vehicle. When he finally heard the sound of a helicopter nearby, Bennett turned to speak with his partner but never uttered a word. The explosions and the conflagration that rapidly followed tied his tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Phoenix and the Dragon:**

Part 6

6.1

Time: 1449

Lance Parson allowed his Ford sedan to rear-end the sheriff's vehicle because his attention was on the fireball in the distance. "Holy crap!" he exclaimed as the sedan abruptly stopped.

Parson and Bennett were out of the car and into the rain in seconds. Parson reached the sheriff as he was leaving his vehicle. "Sheriff Palmer, I'm Detective Lance Parson, BCPD. Sorry about the accident."

"We'll talk later, boy. My dep'ty is calling in the fire department and an ambulance or two." By this time, Bennett had joined the two men. "You must be Bennett. Well, fellas, your captain told me we might be getting into some danger here. I think it'd be a good idea to approach the house on foot from here. I'd say it's about 300 yards."

"But we need to go see if anyone's alive and needs help!" Parson was becoming agitated.

"Don't get all riled up, boy. If anybody was in that house, he's not needin' any help. It's best if we move with caution. If you got rifles, get 'em."

"I will retrieve our rifles, Lancelot. You and the sheriff decide our approach, would you?"

Parson, admitting to himself that he was out-voted, nodded his head. He looked at the helicopter flying near the burning mansion. "Looks like we got company," he said softly to no one in particular.

Time: 1450

"I say we get the hell out of here, Mitch," said Frankie as he watched the helicopter circling the mansion slowly. He shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the panel truck that was parked on the side of the carriage house nearest the estate. "I think it's a TV chopper."

The warm rain, the humidity, and the chopper's noise pushed Mitchell farther away from reality. He was not merely chief executioner and tormentor; he was now performing those duties in Vietnam. "We have our orders, Sergeant. We have to make sure the enemy is sanctioned properly." The crazed, far-away look in his eyes unnerved the already edgy Henderson.

"They didn't get out, man! Didn't you hear those screams? Wow, that was awesome! No way they got out. We did it!"

Mitchell's hand shot out to grab Henderson by his throat. "We check the grounds. We make sure they did not escape." He let go, and Henderson coughed briefly. Hand gingerly at his own throat, Frankie said, "Got it. Recon. Let's do it, and get the hell out of here."

The two men emerged from the truck and began a brisk walk to the mansion. Mitchell stopped once to wave away the chopper, but to no avail.

The heat from the fire seemed to make the rain feel even warmer. They slogged through the overgrown grass without speaking to each other. Mitchell watched for activity to their right, Henderson to their left. They halted just shy of thirty yards from the mansion – close enough to feel the fire's rage but far enough away to avoid its touch.

Mitchell signaled for Frankie to go left; he turned to the right. They began their methodical search of the grounds.

Time: 1454

"Hey, what's that on the ground?" asked the pilot over the clatter of the chopper's blades. "Near the house?" He swung the helicopter around so his passengers could look. "Check it out at your three o'clock."

Susanna Beck squinted, trying to improve her vision through the rain and the distance. All she saw was debris, no different from any other part of the lawn. "You see anything, Rick?"

The cameraman focussed his lens at the area in question. After some adjustments, he zoomed in. "Think I got something, Susanna. Looks like a blond head of hair."

"Can you get in closer, Archie?" Susanna asked the pilot.

"Too dangerous, what with the fire and the rain. This is as close as I dare."

"Rick, whatever you do, keep filmin', honey." She had a feeling this story might lead the news at five.

Time: 1455

David Starsky's return to consciousness came as a result of the pain that screamed from every ounce of his being and of the familiar racket of a helicopter. He discovered he was sprawled out on a wet carpet of thick, tall grass. He moaned, remembering the jump through the stained glass window with his partner.

Worriedly, he groped the area with his arms. His partner was not within reach. "Hutch! Where d'ja go?" He rolled to his right to begin a wider search for his partner but the movement brought with it a wave of nausea followed quickly by retching. He flopped back onto the grass. For a moment, the rain pounded him into submission and the fire seemed to grow tentacles, reaching for him, intent on consuming his flesh.

He took a few deep breaths and rubbed his wet curls and wounded face tentatively. _Catch me if you can,_ he thought to the flames, _but I ain't dyin' again today._ Now very much aware of his left cheek, he used that pain as a focal point to help him stand upright.

He wobbled on his bare feet. His head swam and vision blurred, but both cleared quickly. He spotted Hutch three feet away. He wasn't sure he could see the big blond's chest move. He swallowed and wrinkled his forehead. In two tortured steps, he was at his partner's side. He knelt, reaching for Hutch's arms but withdrawing his hands quickly without quite touching his friend. He did this several times as he watched for a breath.

Suddenly, Hutch took in a deep, jagged breath and he began to move his head back and forth. Starsky, startled by the sigh, fell back on his rump. He struggled to kneel again. "Hutch! Wake up, buddy, you okay? Anything new broken?" This time, he did touch his partner's shoulders and shake gently.

Hutch moaned and opened his eyes. He squinted against the rain to see his partner's worried countenance inches from his own. "Starsk, we're still alive!" he exclaimed with amazement. Talking prompted him to cough furiously.

"Yeah, we are. It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine." Starsky spoke soothingly and loudly enough to be heard over the chopper noise. He stroked the dirty and drenched blond hair, then his upper left arm.

Turning his head away from his partner so he could direct the cough away from Starsky's face, Hutch saw a male figure running toward them. The man halted before he was close enough to be recognized, but Hutch did see an all-too-familiar movement – hands and weapon being raised to firing position.

~s&h~

"Rick, that guy's got a gun and he's gonna fire the dang thing! Are you getting this?" Susanna bubbled with excitement.

"Don't worry about it. I'm the best lens man KZAM has."

Archie desperately wanted to buzz the gunman, but it would bring the helicopter and its occupants far too close to the fire and the unpredictable air currents it generated. He hovered in safety, feeling guilty and impotent.

~s&h~

Still coughing too vigorously to warn his friend, who had his back to the man, Hutch knew he had to gather the miniscule bits of his remaining energy to physically remove Starsky from danger. He felt the fire nearby and mentally inhaled it, to draw on its power to replenish his. The fire surged in him, and with his right arm, he knocked Starsky to the ground.

The violet-blue eyes widened in surprise at the shove from his friend. A millisecond later, he understood why Hutch had done that. A bullet, which would have caught Starsky square in the back, thudded into the ground some yards past them.

"Hutch, stay down!" Starsky rolled into the prone position and lifted his head just enough to peek in the direction of the bullet's origin. He recognized Henderson running toward them. He felt his anger vault to its boiling point in an instant. Then, as if released from a cramped iron cage, he rose from the wet ground, ran several steps toward the assassin before taking a flying leap, arms outstretched and ready to lock around the enemy.

Henderson, upon seeing Starsky stand, skidded to a stop and drew a bead on his bare and scarred chest. "Come and get it, you lunatic," he whispered out loud. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he sneered like a deranged ogre.

~s&h~

"Yee-ha, look at that nekkid guy go!" In her excitement, Susanna let her Texas speech run unchecked. "Rick, honey, tell me you're still shootin'!"

~s&h~

Time: 1458

Mitchell rounded the corner of the estate just in time to see Starsky catapult himself at Frankie. _Dammit! The enemy has penetrated the perimeter!_ He watched, enraged, as the enemy codenamed Big Swede get to his knees and move toward Henderson and the other infiltrator. Mitchell cursed and spat. He jogged toward the three men.

The sight of a man wearing nothing but dripping curls and an intense, purposeful, wild-eyed snarl set off with puffed out cheeks completely stunned Frankie. Without realizing it, he eased off the trigger and dropped his arms to his sides. He stared unbelieving and astonished.

Starsky's tackle connected at Henderson's midriff. The assassin, breath knocked out of him, fell backward, dropping his gun in the process. Starsky had rolled a few feet to one side, but he scrambled back to Henderson. The detective straddled him and began pounding him with his fists.

~s&h~

The four law enforcement officers reached the front of the burning mansion. Parson, curious about the carriage house, started to walk toward it, but the sheriff's words stopped him.

"That 'copter keeps on hangin' out at the back of the house. I expect that'll be where we'll find what we're lookin' for." Sheriff Palmer wiped the rain from his eyelashes. "Marsh, you come with me. You two boys head around tha other way. Careful you don't shoot us, now." Palmer and his deputy almost strolled off to the left.

Bennett and Parson watched the two for a few seconds. Parson took a deep breath and said, "I got a bad feeling about this, Clive."

"I do as well, Lancelot. Might I suggest we not dally any longer? The time for caution, I fear, has past."

~s&h~

Hutchinson made it to Henderson's weapon. When he first touched it, the gun tried to slip away from him, but he fell over it, capturing it with his torso. He worked his right hand under him, finding the barrel. He turned on his left side. Carefully, he grasped the gun's slippery butt. He looked at his partner and Henderson, just in time to see the latter raise his leg, smashing it into Starsky's back.

Starsky cried shrilly in pain and toppled off the hitman, landing between him and Hutch. Winded from the blow, the spurt of activity, and not-fully-recovered respiratory function, he struggled mightily to breathe.

Henderson rocked from side to side a few times to recover from Starsky's blows to his face. _Fuck it, I think he broke my jaw again! And my nose!_ His anger skyrocketed, giving him the energy to return to his feet. He positioned himself so he could kick Starsky's head. "I'm gonna kick those curls right off your head, you hear me?" he shouted with great, slurred savagery.

Hutch, sensing that Starsky was not yet able to respond to protect himself, tried to aim the gun at Henderson but he wasn't fast enough to stop him from launching the promised blow.

So intent was Henderson in dealing a ferocious kick, he lost his balance, missing his target and falling backwards. He slithered several feet away from the partners.

Hutch caught movement in the corner of his eye. He turned to catch it head-on. _Shit! Mitchell!_ he thought as he instantly recognized the insane assassin.

Mitchell halted his jog roughly ten yards from the three men. He stole a glance at the chopper and determined it was not a threat. He focussed his attention back on the enemy. Then, as if he had all the time in the world, he began to raise his weapon.

Hutchinson saw that Mitchell would take aim at Starsky first. He quickly brushed a wet lock of blond hair out of his eyes. _Another mistake, asshole. You're supposed to go for the one with the gun first!_ Not knowing how, Hutch found himself on his feet and in the line of fire. His weapon, held firmly and unswerving, now pointed at Mitchell. "Don't even think it, Mitchell."

The assassin had finally raised his gun to firing position. He had Hutchinson now, dead to rights, but he hesitated. He felt compelled to kill Wild Thing first, but that was only part of his hesitation. It was the sight of Hutchinson, the fire and determination and anger shooting out of his eyes, the feel of his hot breath that traveled across the space between them, the ring of triumph and loathing in his words. He shuddered when for a brief moment it appeared that the house fire was feeding the detective.

Parson and Bennett reached the back corner of the burning estate. They stopped, nodded at each other, and rounded the corner with rifles ready, Bennett going high, Parson going low.

They rapidly took in the scene before them. The tall, blond man – _Hutchinson!_ they both thought - in sodden underwear and with something wrapped around his left leg had his back to them. He was slowly but confidently limping toward another man. They recognized Starsky on the ground, obviously working hard to breathe. The fourth man, who Bennett realized was Henderson, was getting to his feet. Parson and Bennett, spurred back into action by what was a likely threat to their helpless fellow officer, raced toward them.

When he was three feet away from Mitchell, Hutchinson heard the wail of numerous sirens in the distance. He refused to let them divert his attention from his prey. He had his claws in him now. His eyes held Mitchell's, leaving the hitman powerless to focus on anything else. Mitchell held his breath.

Hutchinson walked directly into Mitchell's gun barrel. The cold steel on the wet skin of his chest was oddly reassuring and stimulating. His own weapon stabbed Mitchell in the neck. "Drop it," he commanded as quietly as a scorpion skittering across sun-baked rocks.

Mitchell leaned back ever so slightly in an effort to free himself from the detective's invisible hold on him, and from the tremendous heat that poured out of him. Even the gun seemed to singe his neck. He moved his finger off the trigger and released the gun entirely. He sank to his knees and began breathing again.

Hutchinson moved to Mitchell's side, shifting the gun from neck to temple. He didn't even try to remove the assassin's gun from his reach; he knew he had complete control of the man. He looked back to check on his partner. He saw Bennett and Parson, slipping and sliding as they ran toward Starsky and Henderson. He saw Henderson back on his feet and approaching his partner who still writhed on the ground.

"Leave them alone!" Hutch shouted his order at the top of his inflamed lungs so the detectives could hear him over the noise of the rain and the helicopter.

Parson and Bennett lurched to a slippery stop at Hutch's demand. Something in his voice and the way he held his body told them he meant business and he wouldn't tolerate anything but complete obedience. They obeyed.

Hutchinson turned his attention back to his partner. _Good idea, partner. Carry this off, and you win, even if you die. But you die a cop, you die without giving up, you don't go down easy._

Henderson, maniacally transfixed on the cop he was determined to eliminate, wiped the blood flowing from his broken nose. He took the few steps over to the twisting, wounded, hurting man. He lifted a booted foot and aimed for the middle of Starsky's face.

Before the foot could make its way to its destination, Starsky whipped his right leg out and swept away Henderson's only support. The bloodied hitman fell again.

Hutchinson, senses working at maximum capacity, heard a couple of people moving rapidly toward his position from the direction that Mitchell had come. Reassured by the hats worn by county sheriffs and deputies, he yelled, "Watch him, but DO NOT cuff him! You got that?"

The sheriff shot him a questioning look, but decided to play along. He aimed his rifle at the man with slumped head and shoulders kneeling on the ground. The man didn't budge when he felt the gun leave his temple. His only movement was short, cowering breaths.

Hutchinson limped toward his partner as fast as his throbbing leg would allow. The sirens were getting loud now. He hoped no one would interfere. He and his partner weren't quite ready for them yet.

Starsky was on the sadistic Frankie in a blur of flailing limbs. Such a fury-filled attack from a man who appeared to be in the throes of defeated agony took Henderson totally by surprise. He tried to fight back, but he was no match for the resolute wild man.

The dark-haired detective had Henderson's arms pinned under his knees in seconds. Starsky's hands seemed to grow a will of their own and headed directly for the hitman's throat. Starsky stared at his hands, not recognizing them. He couldn't feel what they felt. He heard himself talking out loud in a voice that frightened him. "What the hell did I ever do to you? You _raped_ that girl and got better than you deserved!" Saliva fell from his mouth. He watched through a tunnel as the still-swollen but less purple thumbs crushed the larynx of the sputtering and struggling man beneath him. "Why did you have to hurt so many people just to get to me? To my partner? Was it worth it, huh? _I_ gotcha, sucker! You tried to kill _everybody_, but you still _lost._ And _I won_!"

He saw the non-descript, terrified face beneath his turn red, then blue. Then he heard himself say in a voice that no longer alarmed him, a voice steeped in peace and victory and rebirth, "I won."

The hands quickly came under his conscious control again, and he released his grip on Henderson's throat. Frankie immediately inhaled as much air as his swollen airway would allow. He wheezed and coughed as his color sluggishly returned to ruby red.

Starsky felt a soft, protective, and proud squeeze on his right shoulder from a familiar hand. He looked up through the now-light rain to gaze in his best friend's warm, sky-blue eyes. The clattering helicopter and the sirens drowned out the words that came from the mustachioed mouth: "The fat lady's singing, buddy."

6.2Time: 1503

Captain Dobey, on seeing the hovering chopper, deduced that the action was happening at the rear of the mansion. He was just ahead of two fire trucks and two ambulances. He steered his car off the driveway and drove it across the overgrown lawn to the back of the house. A fire truck and an ambulance followed. The wet grass was like ice, offering little traction for tires. All three vehicles had to slow down considerably.

~s&h~

"Archie, can you land this overpriced egg-beater somewhere? Time to interview the natives."

The pilot shook his head. _Susanna, you're hopeless._ He landed the helicopter about 200 yards from the house.

~s&h~

Dobey jerked his car into park and rolled out of it into the drizzle. He took in the scene before him. The sheriff and his deputy had rifles trained on one man, hunched over and kneeling. Bennett and Parson were casually strolling over to Starsky and Hutchinson who was helping the former stand. What he saw next made his eyes want to pop out of his head.

_Starsky's naked as a jaybird!_ He began walking briskly to join his four detectives. _And Hutch might as well be! Where the hell is his cast? And the damn press is here. Dammit, I bet they have it all on film. I'm too old for this…_

~s&h~

On his feet again, with Henderson stopped and Mitchell literally brought to his knees, Starsky found his adrenalin supply depleted, his reserve tank empty. His own knees became mush, and he didn't fall only because Hutch still had a grip on him.

"It's over, buddy," Hutch said. He hadn't felt this good in weeks.

Starsky smiled weakly and pulled away. He bent over to rest his hands on unsteady legs and drew several deep breaths. It wasn't over yet. "You wouldn't happen to be hidin' any cuffs in your shorts, wouldja?"

Hutch grinned. "Sorry, Starsk, I seem to have misplaced 'em."

Bennett caught on quickly. As he closed the distance between him and Starsky, he reached under his soaked Hawaiian shirt and unhooked his handcuffs. He dangled them in front of Starsky. "Detective Starsky, I would consider it an honor if you used mine."

Starsky's lips turned up at the corners. He took the handcuffs offered to him. He straightened up, head whirling just a little. By this time, Parson had snatched the front of Frankie's shirt and none too gently "assisted" him to his feet. Parson then twirled the hitman around so his back would be to Starsky. The former Louisianan looked at the battered, bleeding, dark detective with respect, awe, and blatant admiration as he smartly snapped the metal rings around Henderson's wrists and said, "Franklin Delano Henderson, you are under arrest. You have the right to an attorney…"

~s&h~

The three people from the KZAM helicopter converged on the drama unfolding ahead of them. "Rick, you getting' any of this?"

"Keep your panties on, Susanna. Once you see what I got, you'll be asking the boss man for a raise for me."

~s&h~

Dobey waved over the ambulance when he saw the bleeding wounds on his two best detectives. "Will somebody get these men some clothes?" he roared. He arrived at the small group in time to hear Starsky say, "Do you understand these rights?"

Henderson did not reply. He continued to wheeze but was breathing easier. He was in shock that Wild Thing had spared his life. He didn't understand that; he would have killed without hesitation had the situation been reversed. Well, maybe with some hesitation, but it would only be to gloat and make his victim suffer. Why hadn't Wild Thing finished him off?

Parson, still holding Frankie by his shirt, grew frustrated with the unresponsive man. He smacked his head with the flat of his hand. "Hey, answer the man! Do you fuckin' understand your rights, asshole?"

Bennett raised his eyebrows at his partner's unexpected and uncharacteristic behavior. He had never seen Parson act like that. But then again, he had to admit, they had never been in a situation quite like this one.

Frankie careened out of his shock and nodded his head.

Starsky stood perfectly still for a few moments. He felt empty, numb, unreal, distant, displaced. He whispered, "Hutch?" just before his legs crumpled under him.

Hutch reached for him but was surprised to find he had help as he and his captain gently lowered Starsky to the ground. He sat upright with stooped shoulders and splayed legs. Bennett squatted then sat beside the barely conscious, swaying detective. He put his arm around his flaccid shoulders. Starsky did not resist the physical touch, the effort at camaraderie and support; he even leaned into the Englishman's body.

~s&h~

"Ricky, stop filmin', you hear me? Stop now."

"What are you talking about? This is pure gold!"

"Do like I say, camera _bug_, or I'll have your job before the day is over."

Archie gazed at Susanna with newfound respect. _Well, Ms. Beck, there is hope for you._

~s&h~

Hutch wanted desperately to join his friend. But there was unfinished business, and neither would be safe until _he_ finished it, terminated it – and without the extreme prejudice he so much wanted to use. _If Starsk had the strength to conquer that urge, then so do I._ He lightly touched the flattened dark brown curls. "Starsk, do you mind…?" He didn't finish his question; he knew his partner knew what he was asking.

Starsky gave a wobbly wave of his hand and slurred, "Go for it." _He needs to do it as much as I do – did._

Parson had the insight this time. He held out his handcuffs to the bruised blond detective. "Ditto for me, dude."

Hutchinson quietly smiled his thanks and accepted the steel gift. To Starsky, he said, "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back." His smile turned affectionate when he heard his friend murmur, "Ain' goin' nowheres." Then he turned to face Mitchell, the smile morphing to a mask of a Volsung.

The psychotic Mitchell, earlier so full of hatred, delusions, and paranoia, now looked like a whitewall tire bled of its air. He hadn't moved since Hutchinson left his side. His face was a ghastly, ghostly ivory.

Hutch limped stoically and purposefully through the mist to the hired killer, unaware that Dobey was right behind him. Sheriff Palmer grabbed the back of Mitchell's shirt collar and dragged him to a standing position by the time Hutch arrived. Palmer knew a fair amount of the story leading to this incident. And he was a cop himself.

"Your collar, son. I'm mighty proud of you, of both of you boys."

Hutchinson, intent on maintaining control over both Mitchell and himself, didn't acknowledge the sheriff but immediately went about cuffing the killer. Dobey gave Palmer a quick nod, and helped the exhausted, one-handed detective fasten the cuffs on Mitchell.

"Horace Harvey Mitchell, you are under arrest. You have the…" Hutch stopped abruptly, fighting the unbidden tears that forced themselves into his tired eyes. He was relieved to hear Dobey finish reading the perpetrator his constitutional rights, because if he hadn't, he wouldn't have had the energy to shout to his partner, "Starsk! We're safe! You're safe! We got the sons of bitches, partner!" _I protected you!_ Dobey hugged the big blond around his waist before he could fall.

Starsky heard the tears, relief, fatigue, and even rage in his partner's words. He buried his face deeper into Bennett's shoulder, smearing blood from his cheek on the loud shirt. His Adam's apple bobbed furiously and his shoulders shook as he laughed hysterically.

Bennett looked up at his partner and silently pleaded for advice on what to do. Parson, profoundly affected by what he had witnessed over the last five or so minutes, shrugged and half-laughed and half-cried. He hesitatingly put his hand on Bennett's unoccupied shoulder but avoided eye contact. _Holy crap! First time for this! We ought to take lessons from these two._

Bennett found himself at an unusual loss for words and actions. He did, however, draw something undefinable but positive from the first touch of this type from his partner.

6.3

Time: 1530

Starsky and Hutchinson, miraculously not marred by more injuries in their jump, huddled under blankets provided by the paramedics. As they sat in the back of the ambulance, they traded swigs of green Gatorade, compliments of Juan, one of the paramedics. Both men had refused the IVs they needed to correct their volume depletion, so Juan had volunteered his personal cache of the sport drink. But in return, the savvy healthcare professional made them promise to have their wounds tended once they dried off and finished the first bottle of fluid.

They sat in silence, punctuated at times by Dobey and Palmer shouting directions and orders. They heard the piercing shrillness of the second ambulance's siren as it departed with its passenger, handcuffed and wheezing. They heard a wing of the estate collapse, and firefighters constantly communicating their actions and locations. The fire, the detectives knew, had turned into a practice fire. They wished, however, that their firefighting brethren would allow the incineration of that little piece of hell-on-earth. They felt the return of the brutal pain, now that they were down from their prolonged adrenalin high.

Hutchinson watched his partner take a long gulp from the bottle. He knew Starsky was worn out, as was he, but there was something else. He seemed distant and subdued, despite the arrests of Gunther's henchmen that signaled the end of the savage ordeal they had endured for months. Clearing his throat, the blond man broke the silence. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, partner?"

Starsky finished swallowing his gulp with phony relish. "Yep, I am. So what're we gonna do about it?"

_Is it the letdown from the adrenalin, this whole shitty day ending, Starsk? What is it? Talk to me. _"Well, I was thinking we…"

Dobey energetically threw open the back doors of the ambulance and peered in. "What the hell is going on in here? Why aren't you two lyin' down? Why aren't you gettin' bandaged up? Just what kind of shenanigans are you up to _now_?"

"Cap, if you'd just calm down and let me get a word in…"

The captain continued yelling fast and furious. "Calm down? Who are _you_ tellin' to calm down, Hutchinson? I'll calm down when I'm damn good and ready. I'll be calm once you two are outta here and in the hospital where you belong! You got that?" Dobey pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face. He looked expectantly at his detectives. Palmer sauntered over to see what all the hubbub was about.

"Cap, will you just _listen_ to what we have to say?" Starsky put on his best innocent and be-reasonable face.

Dobey was leery when either one of them said anything like that. It always meant he would end of agreeing with whatever harebrained scheme they had cooked up or hunch to pursue, or that he'd have to say he didn't want to know about it. But he had no choice but to listen; they had been right too many times. "Go ahead, but I'm warnin' you – this better be good to justify why you won't let these paramedics do their job."

"Captain," Hutch began, "there were a limited number of people who knew where Starsky and I were going to be until Henderson and Mitchell were apprehended, right?"

Dobey nodded. "The only people who knew who those on a need-to-know basis. I haven't had a chance to get back to Finley to find out who knew at the Bureau, but only the officers assigned to guard you two and the desk sergeants knew. No one else."

"And?" asked Starsky.

"And what, Starsky? Have I questioned everybody who knew? No, dammit. I've had my hands full, coordinating the search for you two!" He paused and cleared his throat when he realized he was yelling at Starsky. "I hand-picked your guards. All of 'em potential detective material."

"So that leaves the desk sergeants." Hutch ran his hand over his mouth and chin several times. "I don't even want to _think_ about one of them…" He paused just enough for Starsky to finish: "…being on Gunther's or his goons' payroll." Hutch shot a surprised look at Starsky. He hadn't failed to notice that for the first time Starsky spoke with stuttering or hesitation when he invoked Gunther's name.

"I know those men, Starsky, Hutchinson, as well as I know you, and I know they wouldn't betray their fellow officers, not for anything."

"Captain," said Hutch philosophically, "how well can any of us know another, when we so often don't know ourselves very well?"

Dobey pondered in agitated silence for a few heartbeats. "You're right, they have to be suspects, too."

Starsky leaned forward. The heightened pain that movement caused was all too apparent in his grunt. "Cap…Cap'n, that's not enough. If it was one of them or one of the uniforms, he or she could be headin' outta town, especially once they hear about _this_."

"Well, what exactly do you suggest, Starsky? That I arrest every one of them on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder?"

"No, just keep the news about Mitchell and Henderson quiet. Let us get back to headquarters and ferret the sonuvabitch out."

"What do you mean, '_us_'? You two are headed for the hospital!" The blood vessel in Dobey's forehead stood out like a snake on pavement.

"We gotta do this, Cap. We've come this far, we want to finish it. The fat lady's only warming up."

Dobey could hear the earnestness in Hutch's voice and see the unresolved gaze on Starsky's face. He debated with himself, coming up with all kinds of reasons to deny them this move, but only one to grant them their wish.

Sheriff Palmer cleared his throat and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his pants. "Seems to me, Harold, that your boys here would have the element of surprise. The traitor certainly wouldn't be expectin' to see them. And he's gonna act more than just surprised. Besides, I heard that Mitchell fella mumblin' somethin' about how could these two escape those booby traps he rigged up. Seems to me they can handle a bit more activity before they go to the hospital."

Dobey studied the two detectives. They were obviously in pain. The dark circles around their eyes made them look like raccoons, especially against their pale skin. Starsky's facial laceration appeared to be infected already. Hutchinson had a frequent, wet cough, which he tried to hide unsuccessfully. Starsky was naked under his blanket, and Hutch wasn't faring much better in the clothes department. But this whole Gunther mess had broken the rules, more so than any other case. He made his decision.

"Okay, I'll agree to this little plan of yours" - he watched as they broke into sly smirks – "but only under some conditions" – he grinned to himself as they deflated a bit. "You let these paramedics here patch you up. You take whatever they give you for pain. And you get some clothes on, dammit!"

~s&h~

Juan splinted Hutch's left arm expertly. In fact, the detective found it more comfortable than the cast. After cleansing them, the paramedic applied silver sulfadiazine cream and gauze bandages to three old burns on Hutch's back. He examined the bullet wound and reassured his patient that the projectile had entered at a shallow angle and was just underneath the skin. The wound caused by the punji stick was about an inch wide and relatively superficial. With deft, quick hands, Juan removed several splinters. He wrapped the leg wounds in gauze as well, after cleansing and applying antibiotic ointment. "Detective, if I was you, I'd get to the hospital as soon as possible. You need surgery and antibiotics, and you better get that cough looked at." Juan handed Hutch three tablets of acetaminophen to take.

"Thanks, Juan, I will. And you're a talented medic." Hutch washed the tabs down with the last of the Gatorade.

Because the ambulance became cramped with four people, Enrico, Juan's partner, tended to his patient outside. The rain had stopped, and the sun was beginning to shine through thinning clouds. Starsky wore the blanket low on his hips so Enrico could work on the arrow wounds. Starsky held his tongue in quiet agony as his paramedic cleaned and dressed the wounds in his side. The flesh wound on his arm and the gash on his cheek were no different, despite Enrico's gentleness. His chest and abdomen ached and throbbed and pulled and pushed with a vengeance and he feared he would go over the edge if his pain increased just one iota. But he couldn't, wouldn't, let that happen. Not until this was over. He dutifully and gratefully dry-swallowed the pain pills Enrico gave him.

"Uh, Detective Dave" – Enrico didn't feel comfortable calling his patient by his first name despite the man's insistence - "I keep a spare uniform you can have. We're about the same size."

"Thanks, Rico. That's mighty nice of you. It might be a few days before I can get it back to ya, though."

Marsh arrived with a white shirt and a pair of slacks. "Sorry, fellas, just had this in the truck. I can only dress one of you."

"Those are for him." With a jerk of his head, Starsky indicated Hutch. "I'm going to the party as a paramedic." He gave the deputy a tired, lopsided grin. He accepted the second bottle of Gatorade from Juan and eagerly swallowed a mouthful of the chilly liquid.

As their paramedics helped them put on their borrowed clothes, the detectives watched Dobey talking to a woman who looked familiar. "Hey, Hutch, ain't we seen her before?"

"Yeah, Starsk, just can't place her."

Enrico chuckled as he helped Starsky with the difficult and painful task of slipping into the pullover shirt. "That's Susanna Beck, from KZAM," he said as if it should have been obvious to everyone.

The four watched as Dobey shook her hand and raced his bulk back to the ambulance. He treated himself to several deep breaths before speaking. "Okay, you two, here's the deal. I'm taking Mitchell back to Metro with Marsh riding shotgun. Sheriff Palmer will follow, even though we don't expect any trouble. Bennett and Parson have already left, escorting Henderson. They'll all be back in Bay City if the doc in Currier approves the man for transfer." He halted briefly to give Starsky a look both scolding and understanding. Starsky returned it with his own without-regrets expression. "Miss Beck has agreed to take you two back with her. The pilot will get approval to land near the station."

"Cap, I'm not goin' up in _that_!" Hutch began to laugh at Starsky's protest. He knew Starsky wasn't a white-knuckler when it came to flying, but he came awfully close.

"Come on now, Starsk, we won't be up very high," Hutch teased.

"It don't matter how high. It's just too damn easy to fall outta one of them things!"

"Then don't fall out!" Dobey and Hutchinson chimed in together.

Dobey's expression changed to one of irritation. Starsky swallowed his next objection and returned to the known security of his pain. _At least I know I'll still be hurtin' in five minutes, and not splattered in a thousand pieces all over somebody's cows._

"You're flyin' in, and that's final. This is the fastest way I know how to get this over with and you two into the hospital." Dobey smiled a little devilish smile. "And one more thing. You owe Miss Beck an interview." He saw the beginnings of protests from both of them, but he turned on his heel and strode to his car, chortling the entire way.

6.4

Time: 1635

Ken Hutchinson took the left side of the bench seat. Starsky took the right, but not before buckling in his partner. Rick had to wedge himself between the two detectives. That was uncomfortable enough, but his discomfort rose when Curly put his left arm around him so he could lay his hand on the blond man's shoulder. Then he felt more than saw Blondie touch that hand with his own. _Freaks_, thought Rick derisively.

Both detectives withdrew into their inner worlds for the flight to Metro. Starsky, eyes closed, sighed a few times. _Damn, one of our own betrayed us! Why? Who? And thanks to that fuckin' Judas, I got more injuries. This just gives the department even more ammunition to dump me from the force. When I get my hands on him…Hell, I don't ask for much – I just wanna be a cop. A cop with the best partner in the whole world. Hutch, you saved my life today. Not just my body. My…whatever. _He stifled a whimper when the overtaxed muscles in his chest unexpectedly spasmed. He clamped down on his partner's shoulder.

Hutch watched the world outside the helicopter fly by him. He had a faint trace of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. _Finally. It's almost over. I did what I was supposed to do today. I got him back. Damn, I can be really selfish, but I got him back for me. I got him out of that house. I watched my partner's back. I was ready to take a bullet for him. Maybe I'm not a coward after all. I know one thing – Gunther didn't change Starsky's and my ability to work together. Yes, he did change it - he made it better. He made _us_ better._ He felt the pain from Starsky's spasm radiate to him. He gently patted the tightening fingers on his shoulder.

Time: 1645

Scuttlebutt floating around Metro Division about Starsky and Hutchinson finally reached Simonetti and Dryden. They were just returning from a long evidentiary hearing that involved an officer with a gambling problem who allegedly had taken to selling cocaine to pay his debts.

Dryden stopped Minnie Kaplan near the elevator. "Minnie, what's all the excitement about?"

The short, black-haired woman peered at the much-taller man through her Buddy Holly glasses. "Well, we're not positive, mind you, but we think Hutchinson and Starsky have been found. Somewhere out in the county. Dobey left here like a bat out of hell."

Dryden's mouth abruptly suffered from an acute attack of drought. He felt his heart palpitate, and beads of perspiration pop out on his upper lip. "When did the big guy leave?" he asked, hoping he was nonchalant enough about it.

"About 2:30. Hey, I gotta get back to work. Learning this new computer system is burying me." Minnie pressed the down button.

Dryden took the stairs to his office. Simonetti was already there, typing up his notes from the day's work. "Uh, Si," Dryden said, sounding casual, "I'm going to knock off a few minutes early. Got to get to the bank before it closes."

"Yeah, yeah, Dryden. I'll cover for you."

Time: 1646

The flight had been uneventful, even though the helicopter, meant to ferry a maximum of four passengers, labored slightly on takeoff, turns, and landing, all of which Archie accomplished expertly with ease on the Metro garage roof.

Rick quickly de-wedged himself and scrambled out of the chopper. Moving stiffly and slowly, Starsky unbuckled himself. "Smooth ride, Archie, thanks. Medevac pilot in 'Nam, right?"

Archie smiled widely in amazement. "Yeah, Detective, how'd you know?"

"Everybody knows medevac pilots always gave the best rides in-country. Thanks, man." Starsky helped his partner, who was able to unbuckle his belt without assistance, stand and exit the chopper. They ducked beneath the still rotating blades and headed for the stairs.

"Archie, I'm taking Rick inside with me. You can come if you like."

"No, that's okay. I'll stay here, just in case I have to move the chopper." He shut down the machine and watched Susanna and Rick catch up with the detectives.

Time: 1649

The stairs proved daunting for both detectives, but they were driven to root out the traitor and descended more quickly than anticipated. The stairs emptied just a few feet from the back door of the Metro building. Hutch watched Starsky's face as they walked to the door, with Starsky's arm around his waist. _A minute after the last time he touched this door, he was dying._

Starsky's expression, unreadable even to Hutch, didn't change as he grunted when he opened the door. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents so familiar and cherished. Breathing in the air of the stationhouse was energizing to the long-absent detective. But he could smell something amiss, a tiny malodor of odious pollution that corrupted his impromptu homecoming. _He's here, right now._

Sergeant Alan Spitz, the second shift desk sergeant, saw them first. "Hutch, Starsky you bad boy, you're back! You're okay! Hey, everybody, Starsky and Hutch're here!" He sloshed his coffee on the floor as he fisted Starsky on his right arm. The latter flinched and moaned just on the edge of perceptibility. "Good God, man, it's great to see you! We've been worried _sick_ about you two! This is great!"

Starsky and Hutch telegraphed each other the same message: _He's not the one._

"Al, we really appreciate your enthusiastic greeting, but we're here for a reason, not a visit. Al, have you told _anybody_ about the safe house?" Hutch queried.

"Hell, no, Hutch! I haven't even told Sandy, even though she can keep a secret. I wouldn't want to risk a problem with Dobey – I'm not fearless like you two. Besides, I didn't want to be the source should the wrong person ever find out about where you guys were. Which I guessed happened, huh?" Spitz's brown eyes filled with concern.

They believed him. Starsky gave him a grin and patted him lightly on his cheek. "Thanks, Al. We need to talk to all the other desk sergeants, too. Any others here?"

"Since you were snatched this morning" – _This morning? Seems like weeks_, thought Starsky – "the division has been really busy. Perk hasn't left yet. He's got a ton of paperwork."

"Go get him, would you, Al? Starsky and I want to keep a low profile."

"Sure. You look beat. Nobody's in the tank right now. I'll send him there."

Time: 1651

Dryden wondered about the helicopter he had heard a few minutes earlier. It had sounded so close. But he had no time to satisfy his curiosity. Simonetti had stepped out of the office for a few minutes, so he had little time to find and pocket a few personal things he didn't want to leave behind. _Damn those jerk-offs to hell. Why couldn't they __just have wasted those two? Crazy motherfuckers._ He snickered, pleased that Sergeant Perkins would suffer the consequences alone.

Time: 1652

Sergeant Perkins arrived at the holding tank before Starsky and Hutchinson could sit on one of the benches. "Oh my God, I didn't believe it when Al told me." Perkins' surprise and joy were unmistakable. "Starsky, would it hurt too much if I hugged ya, son?" Perkins, one of the department's best desk sergeants, played no favorites, except when it came to Hutchinson and Starsky. And Perkins had just confirmed in their minds that he was not a suspect.

Starsky placed his back tiredly against a dingy wall. Hutch, right arm outstretched and touching the same wall, leaned into it. "Yeah, Perk, it would, but I appreciate the gesture. Hey, listen, did you happen to let it slip to anybody about the safe house where me and Hutch were stayin'?"

"Let me think, son." They watched Perkins' face closely as he furrowed his brow and bit the nail on his left index finger. "Don't re- oh, hell, I told that jerk Dryden in IA. He told me he had papers for you to sign, Starsky." The sergeant's face sagged, followed by his body. "Oh my God, it can't be him. I'll never forgive myself…"

As soon as Perkins said Dryden's name, two stomachs turned inside out. A fast look at the other established they were thinking the same thing – that Dryden was the traitor. Starsky slumped forward, hands on thighs.

Hutch straightened up and grasped Perkins by his left arm. His blue eyes sought out the older man's hazel ones. "Perk, you gotta help us. Find out if he's in the building. If he's here, get him to the desk. We'll take it from there. Okay?"

The distressed man nodded. He hurried to the nearest phone to call the IA office.

"Hutch," whispered Starsky.

"Yeah, buddy, what is it?"

"Guns. We need guns."

"Yeah, right. Perk'll get us a couple. You okay, buddy?" Hutch placed a light hand on Starsky's back. He felt it sink a little. _He's running out of juice. This has been one long, fucking miserable day._ He started to feel a surge of adrenalin.

Hutch began to pace as much as his leg would allow. He noticed for the first time Susanna Beck, furiously writing in a small notebook, and her tag-along cameraman clinging to the shadows. He snorted and shook his head disdainfully, and tried to figure out how he could extract some measure of revenge on Dobey for committing them to an interview. Just as he was deciding to leave that to Starsky, who was definitely more twisted than he, Perkins was back.

"Hutch, Starsk, Simonetti says we just missed him. Figures he only left a minute or two ago."

"Perk, your gun!" The desk sergeant hesitated. "NOW, dammit!" He unsnapped his holster and thrust the revolver, butt first, to Hutch's waiting hand. Hutch thumbed the safety off, and said to his partner, "Stay here."

"Fuck no, I'm comin'! He betrayed me, too."

Starsky's bullheaded determination deep-sixed Hutch's resolve to keep his worn-out partner out of this action. "Okay, but only because I don't have time to argue. At least stay behind me, okay?"

"Let's go get 'im." Starsky walked out of the holding tank with a limping Hutchinson right on his heels.

Susanna whispered to Rick, "Get ready to roll, cowboy. I think we're headed to the OK Corral for an old-fashioned showdown."

Time: 1657

Starsky went through the back door of the station first but waited until Hutch was beside him. "You know what kinda car that turkey drives?"

Hutchinson laughed cynically. "No, but I suspect it's yellow, to match the streak down his back."

The sun was bright in the cloudless sky. The rain had washed the haze away, and everything looked distinct and clear. Hutch spotted the tall, lanky IA officer first, unlocking the door of his car.

"Dryden!" he yelled, "hold up! We want to a word with you!"

Dryden looked over his shoulder. He cursed when he saw the last two people on earth he wanted to see. He swore again when they began walking over to him. He faced forward again, and began mapping out possible options. He had only seconds at best, so he made a choice. He pulled his snub-nose 38-caliber pistol from its holster at his waist, turned, and chose his first target.

Hutchinson anticipated Dryden's response. "STARSKY, GET DOWN!" In his peripheral vision, he observed the curly head drop several feet. He squeezed the trigger of the borrowed weapon.

It was the only shot fired. Dryden squealed and cursed, clutching his right forearm, his gun useless at his feet.

Starsky jumped up and took off, running as fast as he could to Dryden, bare feet slapping the concrete, arms pumping, nostrils flaring, temper quickening, leaving his partner and the KZAM team in his wake. Hutch kept his gun trained on Dryden.

Practically flying into Dryden, Starsky crashed the traitor into his car, hard enough to splinter the window. The detective twisted him so they could be face-to-face. He seized the lapels of Dryden's suit coat and pulled himself up to get closer to the shocked, pained face.

"Why, Dryden, why'd you sell me and Hutch out? Huh? ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!"

"You humiliated me, you goddamned cocksucker! You cuffed me to Hutch's table and left me there, like…" - he groped for the words - "…some sort of criminal. I wasn't the enemy, Starsky! I was just doing my job!" He tried fruitlessly to shake the tiger off him.

Starsky pulled Dryden several inches away from the car, then slammed him into it again. "Doin' your job doesn't mean you railroad a fellow cop! Just what kinda cop _are _you? How can you _betray_ your fellow cops?"

"You and Hutchinson aren't _cops_, you're vigilantes with badges! You're not in the same _league_ with me! Go _fuck_ yourself! If Gunther had hired _me_, both you assholes'd be dead!" Dryden sucked back the spittle that escaped his mouth.

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut and loosed a deep, rolling, guttural sound as he repeatedly pounded Dryden against his car. Finally he stopped, held his breath, and opened his eyes to stare at the face of the enemy. He could see defiance, still, but he also saw fear and pain and uncertainty. For an instant, Starsky felt he was looking in a mirror. With a cathartic flourish, he released his hold on Dryden's jacket and walked away.

Hutchinson, flanked by Susanna and Rick, backed up by five patrol officers and Perkins, bored his contempt and disgust into Dryden's tiny soul. After several moments, Hutch said in a stage whisper, "You just peed yourself." He followed his partner. Perkins stepped up to take the traitor into custody.

Rick couldn't stop the tittering laugh as he filmed the dark, wet stain on the crotch of Dryden's trousers.

~s&h~

Starsky was standing still in the middle of parking lot when Hutch caught up with him. The blond man gently put his functioning hand on his partner's back just above his waist. This time, there was no give, no sinking.

"You okay, buddy?"

Starsky snorted and said, unconvincingly, "Yeah."

"I'm proud of you, Starsk."

"Yeah?" he asked, truly surprised that Hutch could possibly be proud of his partner who had almost killed with his bare hands two defenseless men in the last two hours. "What for?"

He let the corners of his mouth climb upwards. "You actually did what I told you to do. You got down without questioning or arguing with me, or jumping in harm's way, or pushing me down first." He now showed his teeth. "Thanks, partner." Hutch felt something within himself slip majestically into hibernation.

Starsky considered this for a moment. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" he asked with childlike pride. "So, you're welcome." He swayed and reached out for Hutch for support. "Gotta sit. I think I'm gonna be sick." His eyes crossed, his legs buckled, and he dragged Hutch down with him.

~s&h~

"If you're shootin' this, Rick, so help me God I'll kill ya."

~s&h~

Hutch squatted next to the cross-legged Starsky and waved off two officers headed their way. He rubbed his friend's back and soothingly directed him to take deep breaths. Starsky finally released the death grip he had on Hutch's shirt. The nausea passed, and the adrenalin receded rapidly. He surveyed the parking lot where they sat. He noticed something odd about it. "Hutch, why is the lot two diff'rent colors? See, it's darker here but over there and there it's lighter."

Hutch averted his gaze. _Do I tell him now? Is he ready?_ He sat and stretched out his left leg, relieving some of the pain his squatting had caused. _Don't underestimate him._ "Well, Starsk old buddy, this darker area we're on? This stain is your…" – he paused to lick his lips and gather his courage – "…your blood. They haven't been able to get it out."

Indigo eyes scrutinized the somber face so close to his own. "For real?"

The blond head nodded soberly.

"Oh." He closed his eyes and the spotty memories came flooding back. It seemed so unreal, but he had the scars and the persistent pain to verify it had truly happened. Fumbling with the keys to the Torino, Hutch's urgent and anxious command to get down, the hands on the steering wheel of the patrol car, the deafening staccato of the gun, the blood pouring out of his car, Dobey singing out orders in a warbly falsetto…Hutch looking lost and devastated and guilt-ridden and so far away. He inhaled in short, crescendo breaths. "You okay, babe?" His voice quaked with concern.

Hutch laughed softly. _There you go again, Starsky, putting me first._ "Getting there, buddy, getting there real fast."

Starsky's face lit up with a dazzling grin that didn't stop until it included his eyes. "That's good, Hutch. Now, I better get to a hospital." He looked casually down at his right hand that had been holding his left side. Hutch followed his gaze. The hand was covered with fresh blood.

"Oh God, Starsk!" Hutch whispered. Much louder, he called out, "We need to get this man to a hospital!"

Starsky screwed up his face. "Not so loud, Hutch, you sound like Dobey," he reprimanded. His eyes rolled up and his head fell on his friend's chest.

Archie, who had left the helicopter when he heard the shot, was the first to get to the partners. Perkins was right behind him. "I'll take him in the chopper." Archie asked the desk sergeant, "Can you help me carry him up top, Sarge?"

"What are we waiting for? Let's go!" Perkins straightened Starsky's legs, then stepped between them, turning his back. He grasped the unconscious detective's legs behind the knees. Archie slid his arms under Starsky's and crossed them over the scarred chest of his fellow veteran. They were off in a flash. Hutchinson stared for a moment at the small puddle of new blood over the dried lake of old. _Full circle_, he thought. Then he hobbled along behind them, following the trail his partner made.

6.5

Sergeant Perkins had called ahead to Memorial Hospital, so a team of ER doctors, nurses, and orderlies were waiting for their two new patients in the parking lot. There was scant room for the helicopter, but Archie's skill and experience had found them a landing pad.

Hutch refused the gurney meant for him. He skipped alongside the one Starsky was on. When they rolled him to a stop in one of the trauma rooms, he woke briefly. As a nurse put nasal prongs for supplemental oxygen on him, Starsky tugged weakly at Hutch's sleeve. "Where are we?"

"In the hospital, dummy, where do you _think_?"

The curly-haired man scratched his nose with his bloody hand. "Which one?"

"'Which one'? Why does that matter, Starsk?" Hutch's patience was wearing thin; worry about his partner, pain, fatigue, and serious adrenalin deficit did that to him. Another nurse pushed him away so she could put a blood pressure cuff on Starsky's arm. The other arm was getting stuck with a needle for an IV.

"Yeah, which one? 'S important, 'kay?"

"Memorial. Now, you happy?" Hutch glared at his partner as the latter burst out in hiccupy laughter. "If I'd've known it would make you _this_ happy…"

"Not Memorial. Hotel California." Starsky had to shout over doctors barking orders and nurses relaying vital signs.

"What the hell do you mean, Starsk?" Hutch was beginning to worry about his partner's hold on reality. _Maybe he wasn't ready…_His guilt quotient began to rise.

"I mean, Memorial oughta be called Hotel California. You know, 'you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave'?" he sang off-key. He merrily guffawed.

The entire room dropped into silence except for the sounds of the cardiac monitor and the patient's ceaseless laughter. Hutch smiled apologetically. "Just wait till you see how he acts when he gets pain medication."

"Okay, people, let's get back to work," said the lead physician. "We all recognize Detective Starsky, or at least know his history. Amy, what's his current BP?"

Hutch felt a soft but firm hand touch his shoulder. "Detective," asked a petite nurse, "don't you think you should be looked at as well?" She drew his attention to the floor.

He was standing in a small sanguineous puddle of his own. The pain jolted its way back into his awareness, and so did a craving for narcotic mellowness. "I'm all yours." As she led him out of the trauma room, Starsky called after them, "Hey, nothin' but Tylenol for pain, 'kay? You don't need nothin' else, long as you got me, buddy!"

Hutchinson was amazed yet again how Starsky always seemed to know what he was thinking, what he needed. He wondered if Starsky was amazed, too. _Nope, he just accepts it._ Suddenly his craving vanished.

~s&h~

The detectives' attending emergency physicians and the on-call trauma surgeon had decided it was best that the deep cleaning, exploration, and repair of their new wounds should be done under general anesthesia. Starsky had gone first, while Hutchinson's cough was worked up. It was determined that he had aspiration pneumonia in its early stages, from inhaling some of his vomitus. The diagnosis added a number of days to his anticipated length of stay. Fortunately, he suffered no further ill consequences from the anesthesia. The bullet was easily removed. The punji stick injury yielded several more splinters, and was not seriously infected.

All of Starsky's new injuries were infected. Final closure of the facial laceration by a plastic surgeon would have to wait. The arrow wounds were particularly nasty and would require special dressing changes. The bullet wound wasn't especially worrisome, except its location elicited pain whenever he moved the involved arm. A thick dressing decreased that problem. His thumbs had almost returned to normal. The cut Mitchell had given him during the third attempt had healed enough that most of the stitches could be and were removed.

The next morning found them in adjoining private rooms that shared a bathroom. They insisted that the doors be kept open, "so I can hear him breathe." They both slept for the next two days, only to awaken to eat, take pain killers, use the bathroom, or check on each other.

5.6

On the morning of the third full day, Jackson Walters walked into his "father's" room. "Starsky?" he asked timidly. "You awake?"

Starsky, dozing, woke with a start. "Junior!" He beamed. The young man was standing tall, and looked strong. "How ya doin'? You look terrific! Sorry I ain't been by to see ya."

"I understand. I missed you, though. I'm going home today. Gran'ma wants me to ask you somethin'. She doesn't think you should go back to your place once the doctors let you go. She wants you and Hutch to come stay with us until you don't need help any more." Junior cast his eyes downward and shuffled his feet self-consciously. "Sammi says she'll take some time off to help y'all out."

Starsky choked and hurriedly swallowed the lump that had popped into his throat out of nowhere. He could see that staying with him and his grandmother would mean a lot to the boy. _It'd mean a lot to me, too._ "Well, I can't speak for Hutch, but you can count on me. Who could turn down your gramma's cookin'?"

Jackson grinned from ear to ear.

~s&h~

That afternoon, Hutchinson was forced to watch a seedy soap opera because he didn't have any reading material. The rhythmic knocks on his door sounded like a beautiful four-part harmony since anyone would be a welcome distraction. "Come in, _please_!"

Hutch was genuinely surprised to see Lance Parson push open the door. "Hi, Lance. This is an unexpected pleasure. Have a seat. Where's Bennett?"

"Uh, thanks, Hutchinson." Parson peered through the bathroom into Starsky's room. "He in?"

"Nope. He's in physical therapy getting re-evaluated. So, where's Clive, or did you come alone?"

Parson, thumbs hooked in his pants pockets and fingers playing the minute waltz, trudged to the chair close to Hutch's bed. He plopped down and crossed his ankles. "I came alone, dude. Wanna talk to you alone. I got some questions."

Hutch nodded encouragingly. "Is it about the case?" he asked, trying to break the iceberg that floated between the two.

"Yeah, in a way." Parson paused, staring off to the right. Then he let Hutch's eyes capture his. "It's about Starsky, Hutch." _No, it's about me. And you._ "He came so close to killing Henderson. But you didn't try to stop him, even though it could've ended his career. Put him in prison. Don't know about Clive, but I wanted that mutha _dead_, man. I didn't want Starsky to stop." He looked away, hoping to hide his shame. He drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair. "Why didn't _you_ try to stop him? He's your _partner_."

Hutchinson examined his fingernails. He had never been challenged to put into words his reasons for letting Starsky do certain things that might jeopardize himself in some way. Now it was crystal clear. He found his words and Parson's tormented face. "I knew Starsk wouldn't kill him. I didn't need to stop him. But he needed to know it, too. If I had stopped him before he knew…well, he might be never be sure that he would have done the right thing."

Parson contemplated Hutch's words for a several minutes. He stood and offered his hand to Hutch. "Thanks, dude." _You gave me a lot to think about._

Hutch took Parson's hand and gave it a warm shake. "No problem. Hey, thanks for coming by."

"Yeah, sure. Don't let Clive or Starsky know about this, okay?"

"Your secret is safe with me, Lance."

~s&h~

Just before dinner, Maxine shook Starsky awake. "Davey, sweetie, wake up. I'm on a break and don't have much time."

Starsky forced his drugged eyelids open and smiled when he saw his own personal angel. "Okay, schweetheart, but don't expect my best," he whispered lewdly. "I like to take my time pleasuring my lady."

Maxine's laughter tickled Starsky to his toenails. "Okay, sometime when we have several days. I have a surprise for you. Get up. Let's go into Hutch's room."

Moments later, Starsky sat on the bed next to his drowsy partner. Maxine dialed the telephone. She waited for several rings, then said into the receiver, "Here they are, like I promised." She kissed them on their foreheads before giving them the phone. "Love you," she whispered as she whisked out of the room.

Starsky held the receiver between them, but Hutch spoke. "Hello?" he asked warily.

"Hutch! My man! How goes it? Starsky with you?"

Together, the partners exclaimed, "It's Huggy!"

"Well, who did you think it was, Punxsutawney Pete? Anyway, I moved out of the ICU early this afternoon."

"When I called the ICU this morning to check on you, the nurse never mentioned you were being transferred," said Hutch.

"Yeah, I know. I asked her not to tell. Wanted to surprise my worn-out warriors. Heard you gave the camera quite a show, being naked and all. I'm hoping to charm the beautiful and vivacious Ms. Beck out of a copy. Would make great future blackmail material, ya dig?"

Starsky was frantic. "Hug, you wouldn't dare!"

"Well, I _did_ get shot because of you two. So I figure you owe me, Starsky. Gotta wear this stupid bag on my belly for months. Just think – Mr. America and King Kong captured on celluloid in all their glory." He sniggled wickedly. "When can I catch it on the boob tube?"

"Sorry, pal, but Dobey was able to convince KZAM not to show any footage," reported Hutch. "I think he used the line about if they showed it, it'd make it impossible for Mitchell and Henderson to get fair trials."

"Fair trials?" Huggy burst out in anger. "After what those two…reprobates did, especially to you, Starsky, the only thing they deserve is a cigarette and a blindfold."

Hutch felt Starsky sag and withdraw. He stole a glance at the bandaged face. It, too, was withdrawn and distant. "Hey, Hug, great to hear your voice, man, but Starsky and I are tuckered out. We'll talk more later, okay?"

"I hear ya, my brother. I could use a nap myself. Stay cool."

Starsky slid off the bed and hung up the phone. He walked over to the window and focussed on something far beyond the realm of the hospital. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood with his feet slightly apart. Hutch could feel the darkness descend on his partner.

"Something bothering you, buddy?"

Starsky was still and silent for a long moment. "Yeah, I guess."

"Well?"

The dark man exhaled noisily and heavily through his nose. When he spoke, it was with the stillness of the deepest part of the ocean. "Hutch, I almost killed two men with my bare hands a few days ago. I wanted them dead for what they did to us. And to Huggy, to Junior, to Angela, and Nick and Malcolm. Those people in your apartment building. I wanted them dead, and I wanted me to do it. What kinda cop, what kinda human being _am_ I, anyway?" Several tears crept under the gauze on his cheek and stung him lightly.

Hutch worked his way out of bed and hobbled over to stand behind and to the left of his partner. Placing his hand on Starsky's right shoulder, he, too, stared out the window. "David Starsky, you are one of the finest human beings and the best cop I've ever known. And the operative word in what you said is 'almost.' You _didn't_ kill Henderson and Dryden. Very few people would have faulted you if you had. But you didn't." He perceived the relief spreading throughout Starsky's body and the darkness slinking away.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk?"

"Thanks for saving my life back there."

"If I recall correctly, I should be thanking _you_ for all the times you saved mine the other day."

"I mean, you know, for savin' my life back in that…closet." He blushed, feeling the heat in his ears.

"You're most welcome. And the pleasure was _all_ mine."

They stood at the window in their own private, shared world. Several minutes later, Starsky sighed. "I'm hungry. You got a candy bar in here? When are they goin' to serve dinner?"

~s&h~

Hutch slapped Starsky's hand. "This is _my_ mystery meat. Keep your paws off."

"But Hutch," Starsky mumbled through his half-filled mouth, "yours looks better'n mine. Can't I have a taste?"

"No! Eat your own food. If you're still hungry" – Hutch rolled his eyes, since he knew Starsky would definitely still be ravenous – "we'll head for the cafeteria. Okay?"

"Aw, Hutch…"

Starsky's plea was interrupted by a knock on the open door. He stared at the visitor, instantly identifying him as FBI, but not knowing him otherwise.

"Ah, Special Agent Finley," Hutch said with mock courtesy. "What brings _you_ here on this formerly fine day?"

Finley stood in the threshold. "Had to come in for a check-up. Thought I'd drop by and see how you two were getting along."

"Just great, thanks. What's with the, uh…" Hutch tapped his nose several times.

Finley self-consciously touched the tape and plaster across the bridge of his nose. His expression turned acrimonious. "Why don't you ask your Captain Dobey about it!" He stormed away.

Hutch and Starsky gaped into each other's widened eyes. "Dobey?" Starsky asked with wonder.

Seconds later, they ruptured into cackles of laughter, imagining the by-the-book Dobey duking it out with Finley. As they continued to laugh, Starsky snaked his fork over to Hutch's tray. His hand was promptly smacked away.

~s&h~

It was late evening. Hutchinson dozed in his bed, Starsky doing the same, but spread-eagle in the chair next to him, as intravenous antibiotics dripped into their intermittent IV devices. Hutch stirred awake when he sensed someone enter the room. His face lit up. "M-" he started.

Joan Meredith shushed him quiet. She tiptoed to Hutch, and planted a kiss on his cheek. He stroked hers and grinned.

Meredith twirled her slender fingers in the dark curls of her lover's hair. He swatted at the disturbance, just missing her hand. She suppressed a giggle, and continued the fond teasing.

Starsky swatted at the imaginary flies again. "What the…" He opened his eyes to the lovely, light brown face. "Meredith!" He jumped up, almost disconnecting his antibiotic. He wrapped her in a bear hug and buried his face in her scent. Finally, he released her, but continued to hold her by her upper arms. "You weren't supposed to be here until tomorra!" he exclaimed joyfully.

"Yes, I know. When we talked last night, I thought so, too. But one of the defendants took a plea bargain early this morning, and Mac put me on a direct flight from Dulles to Bay City. I wanted to surprise you." She matched Starsky's thousand-candle smile.

Totally without inhibitions or a sense of propriety, the former partners began kissing each other with abandon, holding the other's face with tender hands.

Hutch smiled affably. _Starsk, if you don't marry this woman, I'll never speak to you again._ "Hey, you two. Get a room, willya?"

EpilogueOne week later…

Merle the Earl watched the cream-colored Cadillac pull onto his property. He whistled appreciatively at the glorious machine. Wiping his self-proclaimed artistic hands on the ever-present cloth, he recognized one of his best and favorite customers in the passenger seat.

"Starsky!" he shouted. "Long time no see, my white brother! Your chariot awaits, Ben-Hur." He wolf-whistled when he saw Joan Meredith climb out of the huge car. "My, my, Starsky, seems like you're movin' on up in the world. Cruisin' in a Caddy with a gorgeous sistah."

"Merle, I'd like you to meet Joan Meredith. Hands off, she's _my_ lady."

"Gimme a _break_, Starsky. A lady with class like this won't be yours for long. My dear, my name is Merle the Earl, and I am pleased to meet such a pearl." He took her hand and kissed it.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr., uh, Earl. Starsky's told me a lot about you."

Merle tossed a disdainful look at Starsky. "Don't believe everything you hear. He's been known to fib, dear."

"All right, already. Where's my baby, Merle?" Starsky danced in place and rubbed his hands briskly.

"Right here!" Merle strutted proudly to the nearest building and pulled the tarp off the Gran Torino.

Starsky's heart stuck in his throat. It was beautiful. Best of all, it wasn't bleeding like he had remembered. _Oh man, that was _me_! _He saw that Merle had upgraded the tires to top-of-the-line whitewalls. "Merle…"

Merle interrupted. "I know, I know. I wasn't authorized to put those on, but…the devil made me do it. No charge." He snickered. "Take a look at the rest of her, then take a listen to her purr. Key is in the ignition." The mechanic/artiste proudly puffed out his chest.

Starsky started the examination of his beloved car. The work was top-notch. There was absolutely no evidence that the car had been a "victim" of a shootout. He opened the door and sat behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat. He stopped when he reached for the ignition. Hanging on the key ring was a spent bullet. He peered sideways at Merle. "Souvenir?"

Merle became defensive. "Well, yeah, Starsky. Thought you wouldn't mind. After all, people _do_ save their gallstones. Thought your baby oughta save that."

Starsky grinned widely. "Thanks, Merle." He turned the ignition and the engine started instantly. Merle was right – the baby did purr. He revved the engine several times, savoring the rumble he heard and felt. "Hey, Meredith, park your car somewheres and I'll take you for a spin in _this_ one!"

One week later…

The postponed hearing had been rescheduled. It happened to have coincided with Hutchinson's first full day out of the hospital. He, Captain Dobey, and Starsky walked through the throng of reporters shoving cameras and microphones in their faces. All they got was "No comment," repeated over and over.

Hutchinson had worried about his partner all morning. Starsky had been very quiet. The blond also had cause for alarm, since Starsky was dressed in his most tattered jeans, a worn safari jacket, a plaid shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned, and an old pair of cowboy boots. "Not exactly what I'd wear to court, buddy," Hutch had remarked. Starsky's response was a mind-your-own-business scowl.

In the courtroom, the three police officers saw that James Marshall Gunther was already at the defendant's table with his lawyer. He didn't even turn to see the men come in.

Hutch watched Starsky carefully. He saw his partner set his jaw and glue his eyes to Gunther. Once through the short, swinging gate, Starsky veered off to Gunther's table. Hutch reached for him, wanting to stop him, but ended up holding himself back. He had already confronted Gunther. This was Starsky's turn. _I think, no, I _know_ you're ready, partner._

Starsky slowly and deliberately made his way to stand in front of Gunther, the only sound being the thump of his boots on the wood floor. He seized the old man's eyes with his own and made him shrivel and recoil from his corrosive, confident, defiant, and victorious stare. When he was satisfied, he drummed his left fingers a few times on the polished wooden table before slowly and deliberately making his way to his seat at the State's table. Hutch surreptitiously gave a swift squeeze to Starsky's forearm.

Two weeks later…

The room that the Commissioner of Police planned to use for the press conference was definitely not large enough. In addition to print and TV reporters, the room overflowed with police officers.

Up front, closest to the podium, were District Attorney Marc Clements and Captain Harold Dobey. Clements, after getting the story on how Detective David Starsky was able to function quite effectively under incredible stress without complete rehabilitation, eagerly took the detective's case to the Commissioner, to challenge the policy of automatic discharge. Captain Dobey was with him every step of the way, helping him to manipulate the unknown politics and personalities of the upper echelon of the Bay City Police Department.

To their right sat Detectives Starsky, Hutchinson, Meredith, Bennett, and Parson. Behind them were Huggy Bear (decked out in a red leisure suit and a multi-colored shirt reminiscent of a Jackson Pollack painting), Babcock, Simmons, Kaplan, and Sergeant Perkins. Unbeknownst to the contingent from Metro Division, Simonetti stood unobtrusively in the back.

Starsky was nervous, and kept fidgeting with the sleeves of his navy blue pinstripe suit coat. Hutchinson glared at him threateningly numerous times. Starsky glared right back at him with a what's-your-problem look. Meredith strove hard to keep from laughing out loud at the two friends.

The Commissioner strode in. He placed one piece of paper on the podium. Grasping the podium sides with his gnarled hands, he said, "Thank you all for coming. I have a short statement to make.

"As many of you know, the Bay City Police Department has a policy that calls for the automatic discharge from service should an officer suffer grievous, critical injury. This policy was established to protect that officer and the people of this fair city. However, this policy has been contested as of late. At the urging of District Attorney Marc Clements and Captain Harold Dobey of the Metropolitan Division, the assistant commissioners and I reviewed this policy."

He paused, cleared his throat, and favored Starsky with a glance. Hutch nudged him in the side.

"Considering the needs of _all_ our citizens and the arguments of DA Clements and Captain Dobey, the automatic discharge policy will now be a guideline" – Starsky held his breath – "and the injured officer's return to duty will be based on his or her ability to meet all the qualifications necessary for functioning in a particular assignment."

Starsky exhaled audibly but it wasn't heard above the cheers and clapping from his fellow officers surrounding him and elsewhere in the packed room. Hutch hugged his partner around the shoulders. Dobey gave them a sly grin and a thumbs up.

Hutch had his partner back, because he had no doubt that Starsky would meet the qualifications in time. And now, he had himself back, too.

~s&h~

The Friday before Thanksgiving, David Starsky, substitute second-shift desk sergeant, found out he had been approved for detective/street duty in the zebra unit, effective the following Monday. Physically and mentally, the experts deemed him ready and able to return to his old job.

He hardly slept all weekend. What made things even worse, Hutch and Meredith left him alone Sunday evening. Something about their last meal together as partners.

As usual, Starsky was running late when he picked up Hutch. "Hiya, partner!" Starsky was as wired as a PCP freak. "Let's get some donuts for breakfast, okay?"

"NO, Starsk. We're late enough as it is. We'll get something to eat in the cafeteria."

"Aw, Hutch, that food sucks!"

"It's your own fault, Starsk. Now let's go. Wouldn't do for you to be late your first day back on detective duty."

"Hutch, you know sumpin'?"

"What?"

"You sure can be a killjoy sometimes, you know that?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "You'd be a killjoy too, if you were me having to ride around in this circus wagon reject."

~s&h~

Hutch had to drag Starsky to the cafeteria. And when Starsky's mouth dropped on seeing all the cheering people, and decorations, and food, and the banner with "Welcome Back, Detective Starsky!" on it, Hutch clapped him on the back, and said, "Surprise, buddy!"

"Is this what you and…?"

"Yep."

~s&h~

Fifteen minutes into their patrol, they had a call.

"Zebra 3, Zebra 3, there is a two-eleven in progress at 4th and Charter. Please respond."

Hutch cocked an eyebrow and gestured for Starsky to answer the call. The dark-haired man smirked, lifted the mike from its holder, and said, "This is Zebra 3. We are responding." Replacing the mike, he grinned widely at his partner who was busy with the mars light. "Go get 'em, Starsky!" piped in the dispatcher.

The partners laughed and hoped she wouldn't get in too much trouble. Starsky sped through traffic, maneuvering expertly. Hutch hung on, offering unsolicited advice on what route to take and urging his partner to slow down.

After one particularly harrowing turn, Hutch screamed, "Geez, Starsky, I guess nothing's changed!"

Starsky grinned to himself. _Finally, I hear that fat lady singing. _"Maybe, maybe not, partner."

The End 


End file.
